SHE 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP 


a  Gale  of  flDofcern 


BY  ANNIE  S.  SWAN 


Author  of  "Aldersyde,"  "Across  Her  Path,"  "  The  Gates  of  Eden,"  "The  Ayres  of 
Studleigh,"  "Who  Shall  Serve?"  Etc. 


1  The  ratik  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 
The  man  's  the  gow'd  for  a'  that." 


CINCINNATI:  CRANSTON  &  CURTS 
NEW  YORK:  HUNT  &  EATON 
1892 


Copyright 

By  CRANSTON  &  CURTS, 
1892. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE. 

FATHERLESS, 7 

CHAPTER  II. 
WHAT  TO  DO  WITH  HER, 15 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  NEW  HOME, 24 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A  RAY  OF  LIGHT, 31 

CHAPTER  V. 
Liz, 39 

CHAPTER  VI. 
PICTURES  OF  LIFE, 46 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Liz  SPEAKS  HER  MIND, 54 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
EDGED  TOOLS, 61 

CHAPTER  IX. 
AN  IMPENDING  CHANGE, 60 

CHAPTER  X. 

IN  AYRSHIRE, 78 

3 


2228970 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

PAGE. 

DARKENING  DAYS 87 

CHAPTER  XII. 
SETTING  His  HOUSE  IN  ORDER, 95 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
TUB  LAST  SUMMONS, 103 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
THOSE  LEFT  BEHIND, Ill 

CHAPTER  XV. 
HER  INHERITANCE, 119 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
FAREWELL, 126 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  WEST  END 134 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  NOT, 142 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
THE  SWEETS  OF  LOVE, .   .  150 

CHAPTER  XX. 
PLANS, 157 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL, 164 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
HELPING  HAND, 172 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
REAL  AND  IDEAL, 180 


CONTENTS.  5 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PAGE. 
THE  UNEXPECTED, 188 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  FIRST  WOOER, 195 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
UNDER  DISCUSSION, 203 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Liz  HEPBURN, 209 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
A  TROUBLED  HEART, • 215 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Ax  AWAKENING, 222 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
Too  LATE  ! 229 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 
WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN, 237 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
THE  WANDERER, 244 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
A  FAITHFUL  FRIEND, 251 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
WHAT  WILL  SHE  Do? 259 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
A  REVELATION, 266 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
TETE-A-TETE, 273 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
CHUMS, 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
IN  VAIN, t>  .;.'..,.•  •  •  -288 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
GONE, 296 

CHAPTER  XL. 
THE  MATRON'S  ADVICE, 303 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
A  GREAT  RELIEF, 309 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
A  REVELATION, 310 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
A  WOMAN'S  HEART, 322 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
THE  MAGDALENE, 330 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
THE  BOLT  FALLS 337 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST, 344 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 


CHAPTER  I. 


T  wan  an  artist's  studio  —  a  poor,  shabby  little  place, 
with  a  latticed  window  facing  the  north.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  furnishing  or  arrangement  of 
the  room  to  suggest  successful  work,  or  even 
artistic  taste.  A  few  tarnished  gold  frames  leaned 
against  the  gaudily  papered  wall,  and  the  only 
picture  stood  on  the  dilapidated  easel  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  a  small  canvas  of  a  woman's  head,  a  gentle  Madonna 
face,  with  large,  supplicating  eyes,  and  a  sensitive,  sad  mouth, 
which  seemed  to  mourn  over  the  desolation  of  the  place. 
The  palette  and  a  few  worn  brushes  were  scattered  on  the 
floor,  where  the  artist  had  laid  them  down  forever.  There  was 
one  living  creature  in  the  room  —  a  young  girl,  not  more  than 
sixteen,  sitting  on  a  stool  by  the  open  window,  looking  out 
listlessly  on  the  stretch  of  dreary  fenland,  shrouded  in  the 
cold  and  heavy  mist.  It  was  a  day  on  which  the  scenery  of 
the  fen  country  looked  desolate,  cheerless,  and  chill.  These 


8  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

green  meadows  and  flat  stretches  have  need  of  the  sunshine 
to  warm  them  always.  Sitting  there  in  the  soft  gray  light, 
Gladys  Graham  looked  more  of  a  woman  than  a  child,  though 
her  gown  did  not  reach  her  ankles,  and  her  hair  hung  in  a 
thick  golden  plait  down  her  back.  Her  face  was  very  care- 
worn and  very  sad,  her  eyes  red  and  dim  with  long  weeping. 
There  was  not  on  the  face  of  the  earth  a  more  desolate 
creature  than  the  gentle,  slender  girl,  the  orphan  of  a  day. 
At  an  age  when  life  should  be  a  joyous  and  lovely  thing  to 
the  maiden  child,  Gladys  Graham  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  its  grimmest  reality,  certain  of  only  one  thing,  that 
somewhere  and  somehow  she  must  earn  her  bread.  She  was 
thinking  of  it  at  that  moment,  with  her  white  brows  perplex- 
edly knitted,  her  mouth  made  stern  by  doubt  and  apprehen- 
sion and  despair;  conning  in  her  mind  her  few  meager 
accomplishments;  asking  herself  how  much  they  were  likely 
to  bring  in  the  world's  great  mart.  She  could  read  and  write, 
and  add  a  simple  sum ;  finger  the  keys  of  the  piano  and  the 
violin  strings  with  a  musical  touch  ;  draw  a  little,  and  dream 
a  great  deal.  That  was  the  sum-total  of  her  acquirements, 
and  she  knew  very  well  that  the  value  of  such  things  was 
71 17.  "What,  then,  must  become  of  her?  The  question  had 
become  a  problem,  and  she  was  very  far  away  yet  from  its 
solution. 

The  house  was  a  plain  and  primitive  cottage  in  the 
narrow  street  of  a  little  Lincolnshire  village — a  village  which 
was  a  relic  of  the  old  days  before  the  drainage  system  was 
introduced,  transforming  the  fens  into  a  fertile  garden,  which 
seems  to  bloom  and  blossom  summer  and  winter  through. 
Its  old  houses  reminded  one  of  a  Dutch  picture,  which 
the  quaint  bridges  across  the  waterways  served  to  enhance. 
There  are  many  such  in  the  fen  country,  dear  to  the  artist's 
soul. 

John  Graham  was  not  alone  in  his  love  for  the  wide 
reaches,  level  as  the  sea,  across  which  every  village  spire 
could  be  seen  for  many  a  mile.  Not  very  far  away,  in  clear 


FATHERLESS.  9 

weather,  the  great  tower  of  Boston,  not  ungraceful,  stood 
out  in  awe-inspiring  grandeur  against  the  sky,  and  was 
pointed  out  with  pride  and  pleasure  by  all  who  loved  the  fens 
and  rejoiced  in  the  revived  prosperity  of  their  ancient  capital. 
For  ten  years  John  Graham  had  been  painting  pictures  of 
these  level  and  monotonous  plains,  and  of  the  bits  to  be 
found  at  every  village  corner ;  but  somehow,  whether  people 
had  tired  of  them,  or  hesitated  to  give  their  money  for  an 
unknown  artist's  work,  the  fortune  he  had  dreamed  of  never 
came.  The  most  of  the  pictures  found  their  way  to  the 
second-hand  dealers,  and  were  there  sold,  often  for  the  merest 
trifle.  He  had  somehow  missed  his  mark — had  proved 
himself  a  failure — and  the  world  has  not  much  patience  or 
sympathy  with  failures.  A  great  calamity,  such  as  a  colossal 
bankruptcy,  which  proves  the  bankrupt  to  be  more  rogue 
than  fool,  arouses  in  it  a  touch  of  admiration,  and  even  a 
curious  kind  of  respect ;  but  with  the  man  out  at  elbows,  who 
has  striven  vainly  against  fearful  odds,  though  he  may  have 
kept  his  integrity  throughout,  it  will  have  nothing  to  do  f  he 
will  not  be  forgiven  for  having  failed. 

And  now,  when  he  lay  dead,  the  victim  of  an  ague  con- 
tracted in  his  endeavor  to  catch  a  winter  effect  in  a  marshy 
hollow,  there  was  nobody  to  mourn  him  but  his  motherless 
child.  It  was  very  pitiful ;  and  surely  in  the  wide  world 
there  must  have  been  found  some  compassionate  heart  who 
would  have  taken  the  child  by  the  hand  and  ministered  unto 
her  for  Christ's  sake.  If  any  such  there  were,  Gladys  had 
never  heard  of  them,  and  did  not  believe  they  lived.  She 
was  very  old  in  knowledge  of  the  world,  that  bitterest  of  all 
knowledge,  which  poverty  had  taught.  She  had  even  known 
what  it  was,  that  gentle  child,  to  be  hungry  and  have  noth- 
ing to  eat — a  misery  enhanced  by  the  proud,  sensitive  spirit 
•which  was  the  only  heritage  John  Graham  had  left  the  daugh- 
ter for  whom,  most  cheerfully,  he  would  have  laid  down  his 
life.  The  village  people  had  been  kind  after  their  homely 
way.  But  they,  working  hard  all  day  with  their  hands,  and 


10  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

eating  at  eventide  the  substantial  bread  of  tbeir  honest  toil, 
were  possessed  of  a  great  contempt  for  the  worn  and  haggard 
man  who  tramped  their  meadow-ways  with  his  sketch-books 
under  his  arm,  his  daughter  always  with  him,  preserving  still 
the  look  and  manners  of  the  gently  born,  though  they  wore 
the  shabbiest  of  shabby  garments,  and  could  scarcely  pay  for 
the  simple  food  they  ate.  It  was  a  great  mystery  to  them, 
and  they  regarded  the  spectacle  with  the  impatience  of  those 
who  did  not  understand. 

It  was  the  month  of  November ;  and  very  early  that  gray 
day  the  chilly  darkness  fell.  When  she  could  no  longer  see 
across  the  narrow  street,  Gladys  let  her  head  fall  on  her 
hands,  and  so  sat  very  still.  She  had  eaten  nothing  for  many 
hours ;  and,  though  feeling  faint  and  weak,  it  did  not  occur 
to  her  to  seek  something  to  strengthen  her.  She  had  some- 
thing more  important  than  such  trifling  matters  to  engross 
her  thoughts.  She  was  so  sitting,  hopeless,  melancholy, 
half-dazed,  when  she  heard  the  voice  of  an  arrival  down- 
stairs, and  the  unaccustomed  tones  of  a  man's  voice  mingling 
with  the  shriller  notes  of  Miss  Peck,  their  little  landlady.  It 
was  not  the  curate's  voice,  with  which  Gladys  had  grown 
quite  familiar  during  her  father's  illness.  He  had  been  very 
kind,  and  in  his  desperation,  when  his  end  approached,  Gra- 
ham had  implored  him  to  look  after  Gladys.  It  was  a  curi- 
ous charge  to  lay  upon  a  young  man's  shoulders ;  but  Clem- 
ent Courtney  had  accepted  it  cheerfully,  and  had  even 
written  to  his  widowed  mother,  who  lived  alone  in  a  Dorset- 
shire village,  asking  her  advice  about  the  girl.  Gladys  was 
disturbed  in  her  solitude  by  Miss  Peck,  who  came  to  the 
door  in  rather  an  excited  and  officious  manner.  She  was  a 
little,  wiry  spinster,  past  middle  life,  eccentric,  but  kind- 
hearted.  She  had  bestowed  a  great  deal  of  gratuitous  and 
genuine  kindness  on  her  lodgers,  though  knowing  very  well 
that  she  would  not  likely  gefl  any  return  but  gratitude  for  it. 
But  times  were  hard  with  her  likewise,  and  she  could  not 
help  thinking  regretfully  at  times  of  the  money,  only  her 


FATHERLESS.  11 

due,  which  she  would  not  likely  touch,  now  that  the  poor 
artist  was  away.  She  had  a  little  lamp  in  her  hand,  and  she 
held  it  up,  so  that  the  light  fell  full  on  the  child's  pale  face. 

"  Miss  Gladys,  my  dear,  it  is  a  gentleman  for  you.  He 
says  he  is  your  uncle,"  she  said ;  but  her  thin  voice  quite 
trembled  with  her  great  excitement. 

"  My  uncle,"  repeated  Gladys,  wistfully.  "  0  yes  ;  it  will 
be  Uncle  Abel,  from  Scotland.  Mr.  Courtney  said  he  had 
written  to  him." 

She  rose  from  her  stool,  and  turned  to  follow  Miss  Peck 
down -stairs. 

"  In  the  sitting-room,  my  dear,  he  waits  for  you,"  said 
Miss  Peck,  and  a  look  of  extreme  pity  softened  her  -pinched 
features  into  tenderness.  "  I  hope — I  hope,  my  dear,  he  will 
be  good  to  you."  She  did  not  add  what  she  thought,  that  the 
chances  were  against  it ;  and,  still  holding  the  lamp  aloft,  she 
guided  Gladys  down-stairs.  There  was  no  hesitation,  but 
neither  was  there  elation  or  pleasant  anticipation  in  the  girl's 
manner  as  she  entered  the  room.  She  had  ceased  to  expect 
anything  good  or  bright  to  come  to  her  any  more,  and  per- 
haps it  was  as  well  just  then  that  her  outlook  in  life  was  so 
gloomy.  It  lessened  the  certainty  of  disappointment.  A 
little  lamp  also  burned  on  the  round  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  narrow  sitting-room,  and  the  fire  feebly  blinked  behind 
Miss  Peck's  carefully  polished  bars,  as  if  impressed  by  the 
subdued  atmosphere  without  and  within.  Close  by  the  table 
stood  a  very  little  man,  enveloped  in  a  long,  loosely-fitting 
overcoat,  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  a  large,  damp  umbrella 
in  the  other.  Ho  had  an  abnormally  large  head,  and  a  soft, 
flabby,  uninteresting  face,  which,  however,  was  redeemed 
from  vacancy  by  the  gleam  and  glitter  of  his  remarkably 
keen  and  piercing  black  eyes.  His  hair  was  gray,  and  a 
straggling  beard,  gray  also,  adorned  his  heavy  chin.  Gladys 
was  conscious  of  a  strong  sense  of  repulsion  as  she  looked 
at  him ;  but  she  tried  not  to  show  it,  and  feebly  smiled  as 
she  extended  her  hand. 


12  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Are  you  Uncle  Abel, papa's  brother?"  she  asked — a  per- 
fectly unnecessary  question,  of  course,  but  it  fell  from  her 
involuntarily.  The  contrast  was  so  great.  Almost  she  could 
have  called  him  an  impostor  on  the  spot. 

"  Yes," said  Uncle  Abel,  in  a  harsh  undertone;  "and  you, 
I  suppose,  are  my  niece." 

"Yes.  Can  I  take  your  overcoat  or  your  umbrella?" 
asked  Gladys;  "and  would  you  like  some  tea?  I  can  ask 
Miss  Peck  to  get  it.  I  have  not  had  any  myself — now  I 
come  to  think  of  it." 

"  I  '11  take  off  my  coat.  Yes,  you  can  take  it  away ;  but 
don't  order  tea  yet.  We  had  better  talk  first — talking 
always  makes  one  hungry;  then  we  can  have  tea,  and  we 
won't  require  any  supper.  These  are  the  economics  poor 
people  have  to  study.  I  guess  you  are  no  stranger  to 
them." 

Gladys  again  faintly  smiled.  She  was  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised. Poverty  had  long  been  her  companion.  She  ex- 
pected nothing  but  to  have  him  for  her  companion  still.  She 
took  her  uncle's  hat  and  overcoat,  hung  them  in  the  little 
hall,  and  returned  to  the  room,  closing  the  door. 

"Perhaps  you  are  cold,  uncle,"  she  said,  and,  grasping 
the  poker,  was  about  to  stir  up  the  fire,  when  he  hastily  took 
it  from  her,  with  an  expression  of  positive  pain  on  his  face. 

"  Do  n't ;  it  is  quite  warm.  We  can't  afford  to  be  extrav- 
agant ;  and  I  dare  say,"  he  added,  with  a  backward  jerk  of 
his  thumb  towards  the  door,  "like  the  rest  of  her  tribe, 
she  '11  know  how  to  charge.  Sit  down  there,  and  let  us 
talk." 

Gladys  sat  down,  feeling  a  trifle  hurt  and  abashed.  They 
had  always  been  very  poor,  she  and  her  father;  but  they  had 
never  obtruded  it  on  their  own  notice,  but  had  tried  cheerfully 
always  to  accept  what  they  had  with  a  thankful  heart.  But 
love  dwelt  with  them  always,  and  she  can  make  divine  her 
humblest  fare. 

Mr.  Abel  Graham  fumbled  in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  very 


FATHERLESS.  13 

shabby  coat,  and  at  last  brought  out  a  square  envelope,  from 
which  he  took  the  curate's  letter. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  quite  slowly,  "in  answer  to  this. 
I  suppose  you  knew  it  had  been  written." 

"  If  it  is  Mr.  Courtney's  letter,  yes,"  answered  Gladys, 
unconsciously  adopting  her  uncle's  business-like  tone  and 
manner.  "  Of  course  he  told  me  he  had  written." 

"And  you  expected  me  to  come,  of  course?" 

"  I  do  n't  think  I  thought  about  it  much,"  Gladys  an- 
swered, with  frankness.  "  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come 
so  soon." 

"  I  came  because  it  was  my  duty.  Jsot  many  people  do  their 
duty  in  this  world  ;  but  though  I'm  a  very  poor  man,  I  won't 
shirk  it ;  no,  I  won't  shirk  it."  He  rubbed  his  hands  together 
slowly,  and  nodded  across  the  hearth  to  his  niece.  Instead 
of  being  pleased,  as  she  ought  to  have  been,  with  this  an- 
nouncement, she  gave  a  quick  little  shiver.  "  My  brother 
John — your  father,  I  mean — and  I  have  not  met  for  a  good 
number  of  years,  not  since  we  had  the  misfortune  to  disagree 
about  a  trifle,"  continued  the  old  man,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  girl's  face  till  she  found  herself  made  nervous  by  them. 
"Time  has  proved  that  I  was  right,  quite  right;  but  my 
brother  John  was  always,  if  you  will  excuse  me  saying  it, 
rather  pig-headed,  and — " 

"Do  n't  let  us  speak  about  him,  if  you  do  not  feel  kindly 
to  him,"  cried  the  girl,  her  great  eyes  flashing,  her  slender 
frame  trembling  with  indignation.  "  I  will  not  listen,  I  will 
go  away  and  leave  you,  Uncle  Abel,  if  you  speak  harshly  of 
papa." 

"  So — "  Abel  Graham  slapped  his  knee  as  he  uttered 
this  meditative  monosyllable,  and  continued  to  regard  his 
niece  with  keener  scrutiny,  if  that  were  possible,  than  before. 

"It  is  John's  temper — a  very  firebrand.  My  dear,  you 
are  very  young,  and  you  should  not  be  above  taking  advice. 
Let  me  advise  you  to  control  that  fiery  passion.  Temper 
does  n't  pay — it  is  one  of  the  things  which  nothing  can 


14 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 


ever  make  pay  in  this  world.  Well,  will  you  be  so  kind 
as  to  give  me  a  little  insight  into  the  state  of  your  affairs? 
A  poor  enough  state  they  appear  to  be  in,  if  this  parson 
writes  truly ;  only  parsons  are  accustomed  to  draw  the  long 
bow  for  the  purpose  of  ferreting  money  out  of  people's 
pockets.  Well,  my  dear,  have  you  nothing  to  tell  me?" 

Gladys  continued  to  look  at  him  with  dislike  and  dis- 
trust she  made  no  attempt  to  disguise.  If  only  he  would  not 
call  her  my  dear !  She  resented  the  familiarity.  He  had  no 
right  to  presume  on  such  a  short  acquaintance. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you,  I  think,"  she  said,  very 
coldly,  "  except  that  papa  is  dead,  and  I  have  to  earn  my 
own  living." 


CHAPTER  II. 
WHAT  TO  DO  \VITH 

OUR  own  living?     I  am  glad  to  hear  you  put  it 
so  sensibly.     I  must  say  I  hardly  expected  it," 
said    the    old    man    with    engaging    frankness. 
11  Well,  but  tell  me  first  what  your  name  is.     I 
do  n't  know  what  to  call  you." 

"Gladys,"  she  answered,  and  her  uncle  received  the 
information  in  evident  disapproval. 

"  Gladys !  Now,  what  on  earth  is  the  meaning  of  such  a 
name?  Your  father  and  mother  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
themselves.  Why  can  't  people  name  their  children  so  that 
people  won't  stare  when  they  hear  it?  Jane,  Susan,  Mar- 
garet, Christina — I'm  sure  there  are  hundreds  of  decent 
names  they  might  have  given  you.  I  think  a  law  should  be 
passed  that  no  child  shall  be  named  until  he  is  old  enough  to 
choose  for  himself.  Mine  is  bad  enough.  They  might  as 
well  have  christened  me  Cain  when  they  were  at  it ;  but 
Gladys— it  beats  all." 

"  I  have  another  name,  Uncle  Abel.  I  was  baptized 
Gladys  Mary." 

"Ah  !  that 's  better.  Well,  I  '11  call  you  Mary ;  it 's  not  so 
heathenish.  And  tell  me  what  you  have  thought  of  doing 
for  yourself." 

15 


16  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  a  great  deal,  but  I  have  not  been 
able  to  come  to  any  decision,"  answered  Gladys.  "Both 
papa  and  Mr.  Courtney  thought  I  had  better  wait  until 
you  came." 

"  Your  father  expected  me  to  come,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  the  last  he  hoped  you  would.  He  had  something 
to  say  to  you,  he  said.  And  the  last  morning,  when  his  mind 
began  to  wander,  he  talked  of  you  a  great  deal." 

These  details  Gladys  gave  in  a  dry,  even  voice,  which 
betrayed  a  keen  effort.  She  spoke  almost  as  if  she  had  set 
herself  a  task. 

"  I  came  as  soon  as  I  could.  The  parson  wrote  urgently ; 
but  I  know  how  parsons  draw  the  long  bow,  so  I  did  n't 
hurry.  Business  must  be  attended  to  whatever  happens. 
You  do  n't  know  what  it  was  your  father  wished  to  say  ? 
He  never  asked  you  to  write  it  or  anything?" 

"  No ;  but  in  his  wandering  he  talked  of  money  a  great 
deal ;  and  he  seemed  to  think,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  hesi- 
tation, "  that  you  had  taken  some  from  him.  Of  course  it 
was  only  his  fancy.  Sick  people  often  think  such  things." 

"  He  could  not  possibly  in  his  senses  havo  thought  so ;  for 
I  never  had  any  money,  or  he  either.  We  could  not  rob  each 
other  when  there  was  nothing  to  rob,"  said  the  old  man ;  but 
he  avoided  slightly  his  niece's  clear  gaze.  "  "Well,  Mary,  I 
am  willing  to  do  what  I  can  for  you,  as  you  are  my  brother's 
only  child ;  so  you  had  better  prepare  to  return  to  Scotland 
with  me." 

Gladys  tried  to  veil  her  shrinking  from  the  prospect,  but 
her  sweet  face  grew  even  graver  as  she  listened. 

"  I  am  a  very  poor  man,"  he  repeated,  with  an  emphasis 
which  left  no  doubt  that  he  wished  it  to  be  impressed  firmly 
on  her  mind.  "  Very  poor ;  but  I  trust  I  know  my  duty.  I 
do  n't  suppose,  now,  that  you  have  been  taught  to  work  with 
your  hands — in  the  house,  I  mean ;  the  woman's  kingdom." 

This  sentimental  phrase  fell  rather  oddly  from  the  old 
man's  lips.  He  looked  the  very  last  man  to  entertain  any 


WHAT  TO  DO  WITH  HER.  17 

high  and  chivalrous  ideal  of  womanhood.  Gladys  could  not 
forbear  a  smile  as  she  answered  : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  rather  ignorant,  Uncle  Abel.  I  have 
never  had  occasion  to  do  it." 

"Never  had  occasion;  hear  her!"  repeated  the  old  man, 
quite  as  if  addressing  an  audience.  "  She  has  never  had  any 
occasion.  She  has  been  born  and  cradled  in  the  lap  of  lux- 
ury, and  I  was  a  born  fool  to  ask  the  question." 

The  desolate  child  felt  the  keenness  of  the  sarcasm,  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  hot  tears.  "  You  do  n't  understand, 
Uncle  Abel ;  you  never  can  understand,  and  there  is  no  use 
trying  to  make  you,"  she  said,  curiously.  "  I  think  I  had 
better  call  Miss  Peck  to  get  tea  for  us." 

"  Not  yet.  We  must  settle  everything ;  then  we  need  n't 
talk  any  more.  I  am  your  only  relation  in  the  world,  and  as 
I  have  been  summoned,  perhaps  unnecessarily  on  this  occa- 
sion, I  must  and  will  do  my  duty.  I  have  not  taken  the 
long  and  expensive  journey  from  Scotland  for  nothing; 
remember  that.  So  sit  down,  Mary,  and  tell  me  exactly  how 
matters  stand.  How  much  money  have  you?" 

The  color  mounted  high  to  the  girl's  white  brow,  and  her 
proud  mouth  quivered.  Never  had  she  so  felt  the  degrada- 
tion of  her  poverty.  Now  it  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear.  But  she  looked  straight  into  her  uncle's  unlovely 
countenance,  and  made  answer  with  a  calmness  which  sur- 
prised herself: 

"  There  is  no  money,  none  at  all — not  even  enough  to  pay 
all  that  must  be  paid." 

Abel  Graham  almost  gasped. 

"All  that  must  b,epaid!  And  how  much  is  that?  Try 
to  be  practical  and  clear-headed ;  and  remember  I  am  a  poor 
man,  though  willing  to  do  my  duty." 

"  Mr.  Courtney  and  I  talked  of  it  this  morning,  when  we 
arranged  that  the  funeral  should  be  to-morrow,"  Gladys  an- 
swered, in  a  calm,  straight,  even  voice.  "And  we  thought 
that  there  might  be  five  pounds  to  pay  when  all  was  over. 


18  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Papa  has  some  pictures  at  the  dealers'— two  in  Boston,  and 
three,  I  think,  in  London.  Perhaps  there  might  be  enough 
from  these  to  pay." 

"You  have  the  addresses  of  these  dealers,  I  hope,"  said 
the  old  man,  with  undisguised  eagerness. 

"  Yes,  I  have  the  addresses." 

""Well,  I  shall  apply  to  them,  and  put  on  the  screw,  ii 
possible.  Will  you  tell  me,  if  you  please,  how  long  yon  have 
lived  in  this  place?" 

"  O,  not  long— in  this  village,  I  mean  ;  only  since  summer. 
We  have  been  all  over  the  fens,  I  think ;  but  we  have  liked 
this  place  most  of  all." 

"Heathens,  wandering  Jews,  vagabonds  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,"  said  the  old  man  to  himself.  "So  you 
have  arranged  that  it  will  be  to-morrow— you  and  the  par- 
son. I  hope  he  understands  that  he  can  get  nothing  for 

his  pains." 

"I  do  n't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  said  Gladys, 
and  her  mouth  grew  very  stern— her  whole  face  during  the 
last  hour  seemed  to  have  taken  on  the  stamp  and  seal  of  age. 

"And  what  hour  have  you  arranged  it  for?" 

"Eleven,  I  think;  yes,  eleven,"  answered  Gladys,  and 
gave  a  quick,  sobbing  breath,  which  the  old  man  elected  not 
to  notice. 

"Eleven!"  He  said  it  over  slowly,  and  took  a  penny 
time-table  from  his  pocket,  and  studied  it  thoughtfully. 

"  We  can  get  away  from  Boston  at  one.  It 's  the  worst 
kind  of  place,  this,  to  get  at,  and  I  do  n't  know  why 
your  father  should  have  chosen  it"— "to  die  in,"  he  had 
almost  added ;  but  he  restrained  these  words.  "  We  can't  get 
to  Glasgow  before  midnight,  I  think.  I  hope  you  won'^t 
object  to  traveling  in  the  night-time.  I  must  do  it.  I  can't 
be  away  any  longer  from  business.  It  must  be  attended  to. 
I  hope  you  can  be  ready." 

"I  don't  mind  it  at  all,"  answered  Gladys,  in  a  still, 
quiet  voice.  Her  heart  cried  out  against  her  unhappy  des- 


WHAT  TO  DO  WITH  HER.  19 

tiny;  but  one  so  desolate,  so  helpless,  and  forlorn  may  not 
choose.  "Yes;  1  shall  be  ready." 

"  Well,  see  that  you  are.  Punctuality  is  a  virtue — one  not 
commonly  found,  I  am  told,  in  your  sex.  You  will  remem- 
ber, then,  Mary,  that  I  am  a  very  poor  man,  struggling  to 
get  the  necessaries  of  life.  You  have  no  false  and  extrava- 
gant ideas  of  life,  I  hope.  Your  father,  surely,  has  taught 
you  that  it  is  a  desperate  struggle,  in  which  men  trample 
each  other  remorselessly  under  foot.  He  has  had  experience 
of  it,  so  far  as  I  can  hear  and  see." 

"  He  never  told  me  anything,  Uncle  Abel.  We  were  happy 
always,  he  and  I  together,  because  we  loved  each  other.  But 
I  know  that  life  is  always  hard,  and  that  the  good  suffer 
most,"  said  Gladys,  simply.  A  strange  and  unwonted  thrill 
touched  the  selfish  heart  of  the  old  man  at  these  words  as 
they  fell  gravely  from  the  young  lips,  formed  in  their  perfect 
sweetness  for  the  happy  curves  of  joy  and  hope/ 

"  Well,  well,  if  these  are  your  views,  you  are  less  likely  to 
be  disappointed,"  he  said,  in  gruff  haste.  "  Well,  to  go  on — 
I  am  a  poor  man,  and  I  have  a  poor  little  home.  I  hope, 
when  you  come  to  share  it,  you  will  be  a  help,  and  not  alto- 
gether a  bm-den  on  it." 

"  I  shall  try.  I  can  learn  to  work.  I  must  learn  now," 
Gladys  answered,  with  exemplary  meekness. 

"  There  is  an  old  woman  who  comes  to  do  my  little  work 
of  a  morning.  There  is  no  reason  why  now  I  should  not 
dispense  with  her  services.  She  is  dear  at  the  money,  any- 
how. I  have  often  grudged  it." 

"  I  wonder  to  hear  that  you  are  so  poor,"  said  Gladys, 
Looking  straight  into  his  face  with  her  young,  fearless  eyes. 
"  Papa  told  me  once  that  you  were  quite  rich,  and  that  you 
had  a  splendid  business." 

Abel  Graham  looked  distinctly  annoyed  at  this  unex- 
pected statement  regarding  his  worldly  affairs. 

"Your  father,  Mary,  was  as  ignorant  of  the  practical 
affairs  of  life  as  an  unborn  babe.  He  never  showed  his  igno- 


20  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

ranee  more  than  when  he  told  you  that  fabrication — a  pure 
fabrication  of  his  fancy.  I  have  a  little  trade  in  the  oil  and 
tallow  line.  No,  not  a  shop ;  only  a  little  warehouse  in  a 
back  street  in  Glasgow.  When  you  see  it,  you  will  wonder 
how  it  has  ever  kept  body  and  soul  together.  A  splendid 
business !  Ha !  ha !  That  is  good !" 

"And  do  you  live  near  it,  Uncle  Abel  ?" 

"  I  live  at  it,  in  it — in  fact,  my  house  is  in  the  warehouse ; 
it 's  not  a  very  genteel  locality,  nor  a  fine  house.  It  is  good 
enough  for  me ;  but  I  warn  you  not  to  expect  anything 
great,  and  I  can't  alter  my  way  of  life  for  you." 

"  I  hope  I  should  never  expect  it,"  answered  Gladys, 
quietly.  "And  you  live  there  quite  alone?" 

"  Not  quite.     There  is  Walter  Hepburn." 

"  Who  is  Walter  Hepburn?"  asked  Gladys,  and  the  Scotch 
name  fell  most  musically  from  her  lips  for  the  first  time— 
the  name  which  was  one  day  to  be  the  dearest  to  her  on  earth. 

"  He's  the  office-boy — an  imp  he  is;  but  he  is  sharp  and 
clover  as  a  needle ;  and  then  he  is  cheap." 

"Are  cheap  things  always  good,  Uncle  Abel?"  Gladys 
asked.  "  I  have  heard  papa  say  that  cheap  things  are-  so 
often  unsatisfactory,  and  he  has  spoken  to  me  more  than 
once  of  the  sin  of  cheapness.  Even  genius  must  be  bought 
and  sold  cheaply.  0,  he  felt  it  all  so  bitterly !" 

"  Mary  Graham,  your  foolish  father  was  his  own  worst 
enemy ;  and  I  doubt  he  will  prove  yours,  too,  if  that  is  all  he 
has  taught  you.  You  had  better  get  tea  at  once." 

Thus  rebuked,  Gladys  retired  to  the  kitchen,  and,  to  the 
no  small  concern  of  the  little  landlady,  she  sat  down  on  the 
low  window-seat,  folded  her  hands  on  the  table,  and  began 
helplessly  to  weep. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,  do  n't  cry !  He  has  n't  been  good 
to  you.  I  know  he  has  n't ;  but  never  mind.  Better  times 
will  soon  dawn  for  you,  and  he  will  not  stay.  I  hope  he  will 
go  away  this  very  night,"  she  said,  very  sympathetically. 

"No;  he  will  stay  till  to-morrow,  then  I  must  go  with 


WHAT  TO  DO  WITH  HER.  21 

him.  He  has  offered  rue  a  home,  and  I  must  go.  There  is 
nothing  else  I  can  do  just  now,"  said  Gladys.  "  I  can't  be- 
lieve, Miss  Peck,  that  he  is  papa's  brother.  It  is  impossible.1' 

"  Dear  Miss  Gladys,  there  is  often  the  greatest  difference  in 
families.  I  have  seen  it  myself,"  said  Miss  Peck,  medita- 
tively. "  But  now  you  must  have  something  to  eat,  and  I 
suppose  he  must  be  hungry  too — 

"  If  you  would  get  tea,  please,  we  should  be  much  obliged  ; 
and  O,  Miss  Peck,  do  you  think  you  could  give  him  a  bed?" 

"  There  is  nothing  but  the  little  attic ;  but  I  dare  say  it 
will  do  him  very  well.  He  does  n't  look  as  if  he  were  ac- 
customed to  anything  much  better,"  said  Miss  Peck,  with 
frank  candor.  So  it  was  arranged,  and  Gladys,  drying  her 
eyes,  offered  to  help  the  little  woman  as  best  she  could. 

Abel  Graham  looked  keenly  and  critically  at  his  niece 
when  she  returned  to  the  room  and  laid  the  cloth  for  tea. 
His  eye  was  not  trained  to  the  admiration  or  appreciation  of 
beauty ;  but  he  was  struck  by  a  singular  grace  in  her  every 
movement,  by  a  certain  still  and  winning  loveliness  of 
feature  and  expression.  It  was  not  the  beauty  sought  for  or 
beloved  by  the  vulgar  eye,  to  which  it  would  seem  but  a 
colorless  and  lifeless  thing ;  but  a  pure  soul,  to  which  all 
things  seemed  lovely  and  of  good  report,  looked  out  from 
her  grave  eyes,  and  gave  an  expression  of  gentle  sweetness 
to  her  lips.  With  such  a  fair  and  delicate  creature  what 
should  he  do?  The  question  suggested  itself  to  him  natu- 
rally, as  a  picture  of  his  home  rose  up  before  his  vision. 
When  he  thought  of  its  meager  comfort,  its  ugly  environ- 
ment, he  confessed  that  in  it  she  would  be  quite  out  of  place. 
The  house  in  which  he  had  found  her,  though  only  a  hired 
shelter,  was  neat  and  comfortable  and  home-like.  He  felt 
irritated,  perplexed  ;  and  this  irritation  and  perplexity  made 
him  quite  silent  during  the  meal.  They  ate,  indeed,  without 
exchanging  a  single  word,  though  the  old  man  enjoyed  the 
fragrant  tea,  the  sweet  home-made  bread,  and  firm,  whole- 
some butter,  and  ate  of  it  without  stint.  He  was  not,  indeed 


22  THE  GUINEA  STAMP., 

accustomed  to  such  dainty  fare.  Gladys  attended  quietly  to 
his  wants,  and  he  did  not  notice  that  she  scarcely  broke 
bread.  When  the  meal  was  over,  he  wiped  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  and  rose  from  the  table. 

"  Now,  if  you  do  n't  mind,"  he  said,  almost  cheerfully, 
the  good  food  having  soothed  his  troubled  mind,  "  I  would 
like  to  take  a  last  look  at  my  brother.  I  hope  they  have 
not  screwed  down  the  coffin." 

Gladys  gave  a  violent  start.  The  word  was  hideous ;  how 
hideous  she.  had  never  realized  till  it  fell  from  her  uncle's  lips. 
But  she  controlled  herself.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained  by 
exhibitions  of  feeling  in  his  presence. 

"  No ;  they  will  come,  I  think,  to-morrow,  quite  early.  I 
did  not  wish  it  done  sooner,"  she  answered  quietly.  "  If 
you  come  now  1  can  show  you  the  door."  She  took  the  lamp 
from  the  table,  and  with  a  gesture  of  dignity  motioned  him 
to  follow  her.  At  the  door  of  the  little  room,  where  the  art- 
ist had  suffered  and  died,  she  gave  him  the  lamp,  and  herself 
disappeared  into  the  studio.  Not  to  sit  down  now,  and  help- 
lessly weep.  That  must  be  over  now ;  there  were  things  to  be 
thought  of,  things  to  do,  on  the  threshold  of  her  new  life, 
and  she  was  ready  for  action.  She  found  the  matches,  struck 
a  light,  and  began- at  once  to  gather  together  the  few  things 
she  must  now  sacredly  cherish  as  mementos  of  her  father. 
First  she  took  up  with  tender  hand  the  little  canvas  from 
the  easel,  looked  at  it  a  moment,  and  then  touched  the  face 
with  her  lips.  It  was  her  mother's  face,  which  she  remem- 
bered not,  but  had  been  taught  to  love  by  her  father,  who 
cherished  its  memory  with  a  most  passionate  devotion.  She 
wrapped  it  in  an  old  silk  hankerchief,  and  then  began,  a 
trifle  dreamily,  to  gather  together  the  old  brushes  with  which 
John  Graham  had  done  so  much  good,  if  unappreciated, 
work.  Meanwhile  the  old  man  was  alone  in  the  chamber  of 
death.  He  had  no  nerves,  no  fine  sensibilities,  and  little  nat- 
ural affection  to  make  the  moment  trying  to  him.  He  entered 
the  room  in  a  perfectly  matter-of-fact  manner,  set  the  lamp 


WE  AT  TO  DO  WITH  HER. 


23 


on  the  washhand-stand,  and  approached  the  bed.  As  he 
stood  there  looking  on  the  face,  calm,  restful,  beautiful  in  its 
last  sleep,  a  wave  of  memory,  unbidden  and  unwelcome, 
swept  over  his  selfish  and  hardened  heart.  The  years  rolled 
back,  and  he  saw  two  boys  kneeling  together  in  childish  love 
at  their  mother's  knee,  lisping  their  evening  prayer,  uncon- 
scious of  the  bitter  years  to  come.  Almost  the  white,  still 
outline  of  the  dead  face  seemed  to  reproach  him ;  he  could 
have  anticipated  the  sudden  lifting  of  the  folded  eyelids. 
He  shivered  slightly,  took  an  impatient  step  back  to  the  table 
for  the  lamp,  and  made  haste  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  III. 


XHE& 

I  EXT  day  at  noon  that  strangely  assorted  pair,  the 
sordid  old  man  and  the  gentle  child,  set  out  in  a 
peasant's  wagon,  which  he  had  hired  for  a  few 
pence,  to  ride  across  the  meadows  to  Boston.  The 
morning  was  very  fair.  In  the  night  the  mist  had  flown, 
and  now  the  sun  shone  out  warm  and  cheerful,  giving  the 
necessary  brightness  to  the  scene.  It  lay  tenderly  on  the 
quaint  fen  village,  and  the  little  gilt  vane  on  the  church 
steeple  glittered  proudly,  almost  as  if  it  were  real  gold. 

G-ladys  sat  with  her  back  to  the  old  horse,  quite  silent, 
never  allowing  her  eyes  for  a  moment  to  wander  from  that 
picture  until  distance  made  it  dim.  She  had  no  tears,  though 
she  was  leaving  behind  all  that  love  had  hallowed.  She  won- 
dered vaguely  once  or  twice  whether  it  would  be  her  last  fare- 
well, or  whether  in  other  and  happier  years  she  might  come 
again  to  kneel  by  that  nameless  grave.  Abel  Graham  paid 
small  attention  to  her.  .  He  tried  to  engage  in  a  conversation 
with  the  peasant  who  sat  on  the  front  of  the  wagon  holding 
the  reins  loosely  in  his  sunburnt  hands.  But  that  individual 
was  stolid  ;  and  when  he  did  vouchsafe  a  remark,  Abel  did 
not  understand  him,  not  being  familiar  with  fen  vernacular, 
24 


THE  NEW  HOME.  25 

They  reached  Boston  in  ample  time  for  the  train,  even  leaving 
half  an  hour  to  spare.  This  half-hour  the  old  man  improved 
by  hunting  up  the  dealer  in  whose  hands  were  two  of  his 
brother's  pictures,  leaving  Gladys  at  the  station  to  watch 
their  meager  luggage.  He  drove  a  much  better  bargain  than 
the  artist  himself  could  have  done,  and  returned  to  the  sta- 
tion inwardly  elated,  with  four  pounds  in  his  pocket.  But 
he  carefully  concealed  from  his  niece  the  success  of  his  tran- 
saction ;  not  that  it  would  have  greatly  concerned  her — she 
was  too  listless  to  take  interest  in  anything.  At  one  o'clock 
the  dreary  railway  journey  began;  and  after  many  stoppages 
and  changes,  late  at  night  Gladys  was  informed  that  their 
destination  was  reached.  She  stepped  from  the  carriage  in  a 
half-dazed  manner,  and  perceived  that  they  were  in  a  large, 
brilliantly  lighted  but  deserted  city  station.  All  her  worldly 
goods  were  in  one  large,  shabby  portmanteau,  which  the  old 
man  weighed,  first  in  one  hand  and  then  in  the  other. 

"  I  think  we  can  manage  it  between  us.  It  is  n't  far,  and 
if  I  leave  it,  it  will  cost  tuppence,  besides  taking  Wat  Hep- 
burn from  his  work  to-morrow  to  fetch  it." 

"  Can't  we  have  a  cab?"  asked  Gladys,  innocently. 

"No,  we  can't;  you  ought  to  know,  if  you  do  n't,  that  a 
cab  is  double  fare  after  midnight,"  said  the  old  man,  severely. 
"  Just  look  in  the  carriage  to  make  sure  nothing  is  left." 

Gladys  did  so;  then  the  melancholy  pair  trudged  off  out 
from  the  station  into  the  quiet  streets.  Happily  the  night 
was  fine,  though  cold,  with  a  clear,  star-begemmed  sky,  and 
a  winter  moon  on  the  wane  above  the  roofs  and  spires.  A 
great  city,  it  seemed  to  Gladys,  with  miles  and  miles  of 
streets ;  tall,  heavy  houses  set  in  monotonous  rows,  but  no 
green  thing;  nothing  to  remind  her  of  heaven  but  the  stars. 
She  had  the  soul  of  the  poet-artist,  therefore  her  destiny  was 
doubly  hard.  But  the  time  came  when  she  recognized  its 
uses,  and  thanked  God  for  it  all,  even  for  its  moments  of 
despair,  its  bitterest  tears.  Because  through  it  alone  she 
touched  the  great  suffering  heart  of  humanity  which  beats 


26  THE  G  UINEA  STAMP. 

in  the  dark  places  of  the  earth.  In  the  streets  after  mid- 
night there  is  always  life — the  life  which  dare  not  show  itself 
by  day,  because  it  stalks  in  the  image  of  sin.  Gladys  was 
surprised  as  they  slowly  wended  their  way  along  a  wide  and 
handsome  thoroughfare,  past  the  closed  windows  of  great 
shops,  to  meet  many  ladies  finely  dressed,  some  of  them 
beautiful  with  a  strange,  wild  beauty,  which  half-fascinated, 
half- terrified  her. 

"  Who  are  these  ladies,  Uncle  Abel?"  she  asked  at  length. 
"  Why  are  so  many  people  in  the  streets  so  late?  I  thought 
everybody  would  be  in  bed  but  us." 

"  They  are  the  night-birds,  child.  Do  n't  ask  any  more 
questions,  but  shut  your  eyes,  and  hold  fast  by  me.  We  '11  be 
home  in  no  time,"  said  the  old  man,  harshly,  because  his 
conscience  smote  him  for  what  he  was  doing.  Gladys  again 
became  silent,  but  she  could  not  shut  her  eyes.  Soon  they 
turned  into  another  street,  in  which  were  even  more  people, 
though  evidently  of  a  different  order.  The  women  were  less 
showily  dressed,  and  many  of  them  had  their  heads  bare, 
and  wore  little  shawls  about  their  shoulders.  As  they  walked, 
the  crowd  became  greater,  and  the  din  increased.  Some 
children  Gladys  also  saw,  poorly  clad  and  with  hungry  faces, 
running  barefoot  on  the  stony  street.  But  she  kept  silent 
still,  though  growing  every  moment  more  frightened  and 
more  sad. 

"  Surely  this  is  a  terrible  place,  Uncle  Abel,"  she  said  at 
last.  "I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it  in  my  life." 

"  It  is  n't  savory,  I  admit ;  but  I  warned  you.  This  is 
Argyle  Street  on  a  Saturday  night ;  other  nights  it  is  quieter, 
of  course.  O,  he  won't  harm  you !"  A  lumbering  carter  in  a 
wild  state  of  intoxication  pushed  himself  against  the  frightened 
girl,  and  looked  down  into  her  face  with  an  idiotic  leer. 

Gladys  gave  a  faint  scream,  and  clung  to  her  uncle's  arm ; 
but  the  next  moment  the  man  was  taken  in  charge  by  the 
policeman,  and  went  to  swell  the  number  of  the  drunkards 
at  ^Monday's  court. 


THE  NEW  HOME.  27 

"  Here  we  are:  This  is  Craig's  Wyiid — or,  The  Wynd, 
as  they  say.  We  have  only  to  go  through  here,  and  then  we 
are  in  Colquhoun  Street,  where  I  live.  It  is  n't  far." 

In  the  Wynd  it  was,  of  course,  rather  quieter ;  but  in  the 
dark  doorways  strange  figures  were  huddled,  and  sometimes 
the  feeble  wail  of  a  child,  or  a  smothered  oath,  reminded  one 
that  more  was  hidden  behind  the  scenes.  Gladys  was  now 
in  a  state  of  extreme  mental  excitement.  She  had  never 
been  in  a  town  larger  than  Boston,  and  there  only  on  bright 
days  with  her  father.  It  seemed  to  her  that  this  resembled 
the  place  of  which  the  Bible  speaks,  where  there  is  weeping 
and  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth.  To  the  child,  country- 
born  and  gently  reared,  whom  no  unclean  or  wicked  thing 
had  ever  touched,  it  was  a  revelation  which  took  away  from 
her  her  childhood  forever.  She  never  forgot  it.  When  years 
had  passed,  and  these  dark  days  seemed  almost  like  a  shadow, 
that  one  memory  remained  vivid  and  most  painful,  like  a 
troubled  dream. 

"Now,  here  we  are;  we  must  let  ourselves  in.  Wat 
Hepburn  will  be  away  long  ago.  He  goes  home  on  Saturday 
night,"  said  the  old  man,  groping  in  his  pocket  for  a  key. 
It  was  some  minutes  before  he  found  it,  and  Gladys  had  time 
to  look  about  her,  which  sho  did  with  fearful,  wondering 
63-68.  It  was  a  very  narrow  street,  with  tall  houses  on  each 
side,  which  seemed  almost  to  touch  the  sky.  Gladys  won- 
dered, not  knowing  that  they  were  all  warehouses,  how 
people  lived  and  breathed  in  such  places.  She  did  not  know 
yet  that  this  place,  in  comparison  with  others  not  many 
streets  removed,  was  paradise.  It  was  quiet,  quite  deserted  ; 
but  through  the  Wynd  came  the  faint  echo  of  the  tide  of 
life  still  rolling  on  through  the  early  hours  of  the  Sab- 
bath-day. 

"  Here  now ;  perhaps  you  had  better  stay  here  till  I  bring 
a  light,"  said  the  old  man  at  length. 

4iO  nol  I  can't;  I  am  terrified;  I  will  come  in,"  cried 
Gladys,  in  affright. 


28  THE  G  UINEA  STAMP. 

"  Very  well ;  but  there  's  a  stair.  You  must  stand  there 
a  moment.  I  know  where  the  matches  are." 

Gladys  stood  still,  holding  in  to  the  wall  in  silent  terror. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  place  depressed  her — it  smelt  close 
and  heavy,  of  some  disagreeable,  oily  odor.  She  felt  glad  to 
turn  her  face  to  the  door,  where  the  cool  night-air — a  trifle 
fresher — could  touch  her  face.  Her  uncle's  footsteps  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  then  became  louder  again  as  he  began  to 
return.  Presently  the  gleam  of  a  candle  appeared  at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  a  long  passage,  and  he  came  back  to  the  door, 
which  he  carefully  closed  and  locked.  Then  Gladys  saw  that 
a  straight,  steep  stair  led  to  the  upper  floor ;  but  the  place 
Abel  Graham  called  his  home  was  on  the  ground-floor,  at  the 
far  end  of  a  long,  wide  passage,  on  either  side  of  which  bales 
of  goods  were  piled.  He  led  the  way,  and  soon  Gladys  found 
herself  in  a  large,  low-ceiled  room,  quite  cheerless  and  poorly 
furnished,  like  a  kitchen,  though  a  bed  stood  in  one  corner. 
The  fire-place  was  very  old  and  quaint,  having  a  little  grate 
set  quite  unattached  into  the  open  space,  leaving  room 
enough  for  a  stool  on  either  side.  It  was,  however,  choked 
with  dead  ashes,  and  presented  a  melancholy  spectacle. 

"Now,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  set  the  portmanteau 
down,  "  here  we  are ;  one  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  Sunday 
morning,  too.  Are  you  hungry  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Gladys,  "  not  very." 

"  Or  cold,  no  ?  That 's  impossible,  we  Ve  walked  so  fast. 
Just  take  off  your  things,  and  I  '11  see  if  there's  anything  in 
the  press.  There  should  be  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  morsel  of 
cheese,  if  that  rascal  has  n't  gobbled  them  up." 

Gladys  sat  down,  and  her  eyes  wandered  over  all  the  great, 
wide  room  into  its  shadowy  corners,  and  it  was  as  if  the  frost 
of  winter  settled  on  her  young  heart.  The  old  man  hung  up 
his  coat  and  hat  behind  the  door,  and,  opening  the  press, 
found  half  of  a  stale  loaf,  a  plate  on  which  reposed  some 
highly-colored  butter,  and  a  scrap  of  cheese  wrapped  in  paper. 
These  he  laid  on  the  bare  table  where  the  dust  lay  white. 


THE  NEW  HOME.  29 

"  Eat  a  mouthful,  child,  and  then  we  '11  get  to  bed,"  he 
said.  "  You  '11  need  to  sleep  here  in  my  bed  to-night,  and 
I  'II  go  to  the  back  room,  where  there  's  an  old  sofa.  On 
Monday  I  '11  get  some  things,  and  you  can  have  that  room 
for  yourself.  Tired,  eh  ?;> 

Uncle  Abel's  spirits  rose  to  find  himself  at  home ; 
and  the  child's  sank  lower  at  the  prospect  stretching  out 
before  her. 

"No — that  is,  not  very.  It  seems  very  long  since 
morning." 

"  Ay,  it 's  been  a  longish  day.  Never  mind  ;  to-morrow  's 
Sunday,  and  we.  need  n't  get  up  before  ten  or  eleven." 

"  Do  n't  you  go  to  church,  Uncle  Abel?" 
"Sometimes  in    the   afternoon,  or   at   night.     O,  there 's 
plenty  of  churches ;  they  grow  as  thick  as  mushrooms,  and 
do  about  as  much  good.     Won't  you  eat?" 

The  fare  was  not  inviting.  Nevertheless,  Gladys  did  her 
best  to  swallow  a  few  morsels,  because  she  really  felt  faint 
and  weak.  It  did  not  occur  to  the  miser  that  he  might  kin- 
dle a  cheerful  spark  of  fire  to  give  her  a  welcome,  and  to 
make  her  a  cup  of  tea.  lie  wTas  not  less  cold  and  hungry 
himself,  it  may  be  believed ;  but  he  had  long  inured  himself 
to  such  privation,  and  bore  it  with  an  outward  semblance  of 
content. 

When  they  had  eaten,  he  busied  himself  getting  an  old 
rug  and  a  pillow  from  the  chest  standing  across  one  of  the 
windows,  and  carried  them  into  the  other  room ;  then  he  bade 
Gladys  get  quickly  to  bed,  and  not  burn  the  candle  too  long. 
He  went  in  the  dark  himself,  and  when  Gladys  heard  his  foot- 
steps grow  fainter  in  the  long  passage,  a  great  terror  took 
possession  of  her.  The  place  was  so  strange,  so  cold,  so  un- 
known !  For  some  time  she  Avas  even  afraid  to  move ;  but  at 
last  she  rose  and  crossed  the  floor  to  the  windows  to  see 
whether  from  them  any  thing  friendly  or  familiar  could  be 
seen. 

But  they  looked  into  tlie  street,  and  had  thick  iron  bars 


30  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

across  them,  exactly  like  the  windows  of  a  jail.  It  was  the 
last  straw  added  to  the  burden  of  the  unhappy  child.  Her 
imagination  did  not  lack  in  vividness,  and  a  thousand  un- 
known terrors  rose  up  before  her  terrified  eyes.  If  only 
from  the  window  she  might  have  looked  up  to  the  eyes  of  the 
pitying  stars,  she  had  been  less  desolate,  less  forlorn.  A  sharp 
sense  of  physical  cold  was  the  first  thing  to  arouse  her,  and 
she  took  the  candle  and  approached  the  bed.  Now,  though 
they  had  ever  been  poor,  the  artist  and  his  child  had  kept 
their  surroundings  clean  and  wholesome.  In  her  personal 
tastes  Gladys  was  as  fastidious  as  the  highest  lady  in  the 
land.  She  turned  do\vn  the  covering,  and  when  she  saw  the 
hue  of  the  linen  her  lip  curled,  and  she  hastily  covered  it  up 
from  sight.  In  the  end  she  laid  herself  down  without  un- 
dressing above  the  bed,  spreading  a  clean  handkerchief  for  her 
head  to  rest  upon.  And  so,  worn  out,  she  slept  at  last  an  un- 
troubled and  dreamless  sleep,  in  which  she  forgot  for  many 
hours  her  forlorn  and  friendless  state. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A.  RA.Y  OK   LIGHT. 

,  VXD  AY  was  a  dreary  day.  It  rained  again, 
and  the  fog  was  so  thick  that  it  \vas  dim  twilight 
all  da}*  long  in  Gladys's  new  home.  Her  uncle 
did  not  go  out  at  all,  but  dozed  in  the  chim- 
ney corner  between  the  intervals  of  preparing  the  meager 
meals.  On  Sunday  Abel  Graham  attended  to  his  own 
housekeeping,  and  took  care  to  keep  a  shilling  off  Mrs. 
Macintyre's  pittance  for  the  same.  Gladys,  though  unac- 
customed to  perform  household  duties,  except  of  the  slightest 
kind,  was  glad  to  occupy  herself  with  them  to  make  the  time 
pass.  The  old  man,  from  his  corner,  watched,  with  much 
approval,  the  slender  figure  moving  actively  about  the 
kitchen,  the  busy  hands  making  order  out  of  chaos,  and 
adding  the  grace  of  her  sweet,  young  presence  to  that  dreary 
place.  On  the  morrow  he  told  himself  he  should  dismiss  the 
expensive  Mrs.  Mad n tyre.  Yes,  he  had  made  a  good  invest- 
ment ;  and  then  the  girl  would  always  be  there,  a  living 
creature,  to  whom  he  might  talk  when  so  disposed. 

"It  isn't  at  all  a  bad  sort  of  place,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
quite  cheerfully.  "At  the  back,  in  the  yard,  there  's  a  tree 
and  a  strip  of  grass.  In  spring,  if  you  like,  you  might  put 
in  a  penny-worth  of  seeds,  and  have  a  flower.'' 

3J 


32  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

This  was  a  tremendous  concession.  Gladys  felt  grateful 
for  the  kindly  thought  which  prompted  it. 

"  One  tree  growing  all  by  itself.  Poor  thing !  how  lonely 
it  must  be!" 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  That 's  an  odd  way  to  look  at  it.     Whoever  heard  of  a 
tree  being  lonely?     You  have  a  great  many  queer  fancies, 
but  they  won't  flourish  here.     Glasgow  is  given  up  to  busi 
ness ;  it  has  no  time  for  foolish  fancies." 

Gladys  gravely  nodded. 

"  Papa  told  me  so.     Is  it  very  far  to  Ayrshire,  Uncle 

Abel?" 

The  old  man  gave  a  quick  start. 

"To  Ayrshire!  What  makes  you  ask  the  question? 
What  has  put  such  a  thing  into  your  head?" 

"  Papa  spoke  of  it  so  often— of  that  beautiful  village 
where  you  and  he  were  born.  He  was  so  sorry  I  could  not 
pronounce  it  right,  Mauchline." 

As  that  sweet  voice,  withjts  pretty  English  accent,  uttered 
the  familiar  name,  again  a  strange  thrill  visited  the  old  man's 
withered  heart. 

"  No,  you  do  n't  say  it  right.  But  I  wonder  that  he 
spoke  of  it  so  much.  We  were  poor  enough  there— herd-boys 
in  the  fields.  We  could  n't  well  have  a  humbler  origin,  eh  ?" 

"  But  it  was  a  beautiful  life — papa  said  so — among  the 
fields  and  trees,  listening  to  the  birds;  the  same  songs  Burns 
used  to  hear.  I  seem  to  know  every  step  of  the  way,  all  the 
fields  in  Mossgiel,  and  every  tree  in  the  woods  of  Balloch- 
myle.  Just  before  he  died  he  tried  to  sing— 0,  it  was  so 
painful,  to  hear  his  dear,  trembling  voice,  and  it  was  the 
'  Bonnie  Lass  o'  Ballochmyle.'  If  it  is  not  very  far,  will  you 
take  me  one  day  when  you  have  time,  Uncle  Abel,  to  see 
Mauchline  and  Mossgiel  and  Ballochmyle?" 

She  looked  at  him  fearlessly  as  she  made  her  request, 
and  her  courage  pleased  him. 

"We'll  see.     Perhaps  at  the  fair,  when  fares  are  cheap; 


A  BAY  OF  LIGHT.  33 

but  it  will  only  bo  to  please  you.  I  never  want  to  see  the 
place  again." 

"  0,  is  not  that  very  strange,  Uncle  Abel,  that  papa  and 
you  should  think  of  it  so  differently?  He  loved  it  all  so 
much,  and  he  always  said,  when  we  were  rich  we  should 
come,  he  and  I  together,  to  Scotland." 

"  He  was  glad  enough  to  turn  his  back  on  it,  anyhow.  If 
he  had  staid  in  Glasgow  and  attended  to  business,  he  might 
have  been  a  rich  man,"  said  he,  incautiously. 

"  You  are  not  rich,  though  you  have  done  so,"  said  Gladys, 
quickly,  looking  at  him  with  her  young,  fearless  eyes.  "  I 
think  papa  was  better  off  than  you,  because  he  could  always 
be  in  the  country  and  not  here." 

The  undisguised  contempt  on  the  girl's  face  as  she  took 
in  her  surroundings,  rather  nettled  the  old  man,  and  he  gave 
her  a  snappish  answer ;  then  picked  himself  up,  and  went  off 
to  his  warehouse. 

Next  day  Gladys  had  to  rise  quite  early — before  six — and 
with  her  own  hands  light  the  fire,  under  the  old  man's  super- 
intendence, thus  receiving  her  first  lesson  in  the  economy  of 
fire-lighting.  She  was  very  patient,  and  learned  her  lesson 
very  well.  While  she  was  brushing  the  hearth,  she  heard 
another  foot  on  the  passage,  and  was  further  astonished  by 
the  tones  of  a  woman's  voice  giving  utterance  to  surprise: 

"  Mercy  on  us !  wha  's  he  gotten  noo  ?" 

The  words,  uttered  in  the  broadest  Scotch,  and  further 
graced  by  the  unlovely  Glasgow  accent,  fell  on  the  girl's  ears 
like  the  sound  of  a  foreign  tongue.  She  paused,  broom  in 
hand,  and  looked  in  rather  a  bewildered  manner  at  the  short, 
stout  figure,  standing  in  the  doorway,  with  bare  red  arms 
akimbo,  and  the  broadest  grin  on  her  coarse  but  not  un- 
kindly face. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  what  is  it?"  Gladys  asked  kindly, 
and  the  surprise  deepened  on  the  Scotchwoman's  face. 

"  Ye '11  be  his  niece,  mabbe;  his  brither's  lass, are  ye, eh? 
And  hae  ye  come  to  bide?  If  ye  hiv',  Almichty  help  ye." 


34  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Gladys  shook  her  head,  not  understanding  yet  a  single 
word.  At  this  awkward  juncture  the  old  man  came  hurry- 
ing along  the  passage,  and  Mrs.  Macintyre  turned  to  him 
with  a  little  courtesy. 

"I'm  speakin'  to  the  young  leddy,  but  she  seemin'ly 
doesua  understand.  I  see  my  work's  dune,  mebbe  I'm  no 
to  come  back  ?" 

"  No ;  my  niece  can  do  the  little  that  is  necessary,  so  you 
need  n't  come  back,  Mrs.  Macintyre,  and  I  'm  much  obliged 
to  you,"  said  the  old  man,  who  was  polite^always,  in  every 
circumstance,  out  of  policy. 

"  Ye 're  awn  me  one  and  nine,  fork  it  oot,"  she  answered 
brusquely,  and  held  out  her  brawny  hand,  into  which  Abel 
Graham  reluctantly,  as  usual,  put  the  desired  coins. 

"  Yer  brither's  dochter,  genty  born  ?"  said  Mrs.  Macintyre, 
with  a  jerk  of  her  thumb.  "  Gie  her  her  meat;  mind  a 
young  wame  's  aye  toom.  Puir  thing,  puir  thing !" 

Abel  Graham  hastened  her  out ;  but  she  only  remained 
in  the  street  until  she  saw  his  visage  at  one  of  the  upper 
windows ;  then  she  darted  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  laid  hold 
of  the  astonished  Gladys  by  the  shoulder.  "  If  ye  ever  want 
a  bite— an'  as  sure  as  daith  ye  will  often— come  ye  to  me,  my 
lamb,  the  second  pend  i'  the  Wynd,  third  close,  an'  twa  stairs 
up,  an'  never  heed  him,  auld  skin  o'  a  meeser  that  he  is." 

She  went  as  quickly  as  she  came,  leaving  Gladys  dimly 
conscious  of  her  meaning,  but  feeling  intuitively  that  the 
words  were  kindly  and  even  tenderly  spoken.  So  they  were 
not  forgotten.  When  the  water  had  boiled,  the  old  man  came 
down  to  supervise  the  making  of  the  porridge— a  mystery 
into  which  Gladys  had  not  been  yet  initiated.  Three  por- 
tions were  served  on  plates,  a  very  little  tea  put  in  a  tiny 
brown  tea-pot,  and  breakfast  was  ready.  Then  Abel  went 
into  the  passage  and  shouted  to  his  young  assistant  to  come 
down.  Gladys  was  conscious  of  a  strong  sense  of  curiosity 
as  she  awaited  the  coming  of  the  imp,  which  was  his  master's 
favorite  name  for  him,  and  when  he  entered  she  felt  at  first 


A  RAY  OF  LIGHT.  35 

keenly  disappointed.  He  was  only  a  very  ordinary  looking 
street  boy,  she  thought,  rather  undersized,  but  still  too  big 
for  his  clothes,  which  were  stretched  on  him  tightly,  his  short 
ti-ousers  showing  the  tops  of  his  patched  boots,  which  were 
several  sizes  too  large  for  him.  and  gave  him  a  very  ungrace- 
ful appearance.  He  had  not  even  a  collar,  only  an  old  tartan 
scarf  knotted  round  his  neck,  and  from  the  shrunk  sleeves 
of  the  old  jacket  his  hands,  red  and  bony,  appeared  abnor- 
mally large.  But  when  she  looked  at  his  face,  at  the  eyes 
which  looked  out  from  the  tangle  of  his  hair,  she  forgot  all 
the  rest,  and  her  heart  warmed  to  him  before  he  had  uttered 
a  word. 

"  This  is  Walter  Hepburn,  my  niece  Mary  Graham ;  and 
you  may  as  well  be  friendly,  because  I  can't  have  any  quar- 
reling here,"  was  the  old  man's  introduction  ;  then,  without 
a  word  of  thanksgiving,  he  fell  to  eating  his  porridge,  after 
having  carefully  divided  the  sky-blue  milk  into  three  equal 
portions. 

The  two  young  persons  gi-avely  nodded  to  each  other, 
and  also  began  to  eat.  Gladys,  feeling  intuitively  that  a 
kindred  soul  was  near  her,  felt  a  wild  desire  to  laugh ;  her 
lips  even  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  restrain  them ; 
and  Walter  Hepburn  answered  by  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  which 
was  the  first  bright  thing  Gladys  had  seen  in  Glasgow. 
But  though  she  felt  kindly  towards  him,  and  glad  that  he 
was  there,  she  did  not  by  any  means  admire  him,  and  she 
even  thought  that  if  she  knew  him  better  she  would  tell  him 
of  his  objectionable  points.  For  one  thing,  he  had  no  man- 
ners ;  he  sat  rather  far  back  from  the  table,  and  leaned  for- 
ward till  his  head  was  almost  on  a  level  with  his  plate. 
Then  he  made  a  loud  noise  in  his  eating,  which  disturbed 
Gladys  very  much  ;  certainly  she  was  too  fastidious  and  deli- 
cate in  her  taste  for  her  present  lot  in  life.  When  that 
strange  and  silent  meal  was  over,  the  old  man  retired  to  the 
warehouse  and  left  the  children  alone.  But  that  did  not  dis- 
concert them,  as  might  have  been  expected.  From  the  first 


36  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

moment  they  felt  at  home  with  each  other.  "Walter  was  the 
first  to  speak.  He  leaned  up  against  the  chimney-piece,  and 
meditatively  watched  the  girl  as,  she  began  deftly  to  clear  the 
table. 

"  I  say,  miss,"  he  said  then,  "  do  you  think  you  '11  like  to 
be  here?" 

The  English  was  pretty  tolerable,  though  the  accent  was 
very  Scotch. 

"  No.  How  could  I  ?"  was  the  frank  reply  of  Gladys. 
"  But  I  have  nowhere  else,  and  I  should  be  thankful  for  it." 

"Urn!" 

Walter  thrust  his  hands  into  his  diminutive  pockets,  and 
eyed  her  with  a  kind  of  meditative  gravity. 

"Are  you  always  thankful  when  you  should  be?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  Gladys  answered,  with  a  little  shake  of 
her  head.  "  You  live  here  all  the  week,  do  n't  you,  till  Sat- 
urday night,  when  you  go  home?" 

"Yes,  and  I  'm  always  thankful,  if  you  like,  when  Mon- 
day comes." 

Gladys  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  You  are  glad  when  Monday  comes,  to  come  back  here ! 
How  strange,  and  the  other  place  is  home!  Have  you  a 
father  and  mother?" 

< 

"Yes,  worse  luck." 

Again  Gladys  looked  at  him,  this  time  with  strong  dis- 
approval. 

"  I  do  n't  understand  you.  It  is  very  dreadful,  I  think, 
that  you  should  talk  like  that." 

"  Is  it?  Perhaps  if  you  were  me,  and  had  it  to  do,  you  'd 
understand  it.  1  wish  I  was  an  orphan.  When  a  man  's  an 
orphan  he  may  get  on,  but  he  never  can  if  he  has  relations 
like  mine." 

"Are  they — are  they — wicked?"  asked  Gladys,  hesitat- 
ingly. The  lad  answered  by  a  short,  bitter  laugh. 

"Well,   perhaps   not    exactly.       They   only   drink   and 


A  KAY  OF  LIGHT.  37 

quarrel,  and  drink  again  whenever  they  have  a  copper.  Sat- 
urday and  Sunday  are  their  head-days,  because  Saturday 's  the 
pay.  But  I  'm  better  off  than  Liz,  because  she  has  to  be 
there  always." 

"  Is  Liz  your  sister  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  n't  a  bad  sort,  if  she  had  a  chance ;  but  she 
never  will  have  a  chance  there ;  an'  perhaps  by  the  time  I  'm 
able  to  take  care  of  her,  it  will  be  too  late." 

Gladys  did  not  understand  him,  but  forbore  to  ask  any 
more  questions.  She  had  got  something  fresh  to  ponder 
over;  another  of  the  many  mysteries  of  life. 

"  I  say — he 's  a  queer  old  buffer,  the  boss,  is  n't  he  ?"  asked 
Walter,  his  eye  twinkling  again  as  he  jerked  his  thumb 
towards  the  door.  "  They  say  he 's  awful  rich  ;  but  he 's 
a  miserable  old  wretch.  I  'd  rather  be  myself  than  him 
any  day." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  answered  Gladys,  looking  into  the 
fine  open  face  of  the  lad  with  a  smile,  which  made  him  red- 
den a  little. 

"  I  say,  you  might  tell  me  why  you  think  I  'm  so  much 
better  off  than  you.  I  sometimes  think  myself  that  I  'm  the 
most  miserable  wretch  in  the  world." 

"  0  no,  you're  not;  you  are  quite  young,  and  you  are  a 
man — at  least,  you  will  be  soon.  If  I  were  you  I  should 
never  think  that,  nor  be  afraid  of  anything.  It  is  n't  very 
nice  to  be  a  girl  like  me ;  with  you  it  is  so  different." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  ought  to  be  thankful  that  I'm  not  a 
woman.  I  never  thought  of  that.  Women  have  the  worst 
of  it  mostly,  now  I  think  of  it.  I  'm  sorry  for  you." 

"  Thank  you." 

Gladys  looked  at  him  gratefully ;  and  both  these  young, 
desolate  hearts,  awaking  to  the  possibilities  and  the  sorrows 
of  life,  felt  the  chord  of  sympathy  responding  each  to  the 
other. 

"He  gives  me  five  shillings  a  week  here  and  my  meat. 
They  take  it  all  at  home,  and  I  want  so  awful  to  go  to  the 


38 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 


night-school.  Do  you  know,  it  takes  me  all  my  time  to  read 
words  of  three  or  four  letters." 

"  O,  how  dreadful !  I  can  read.  1  '11  teach  you,"  she  cried 
at  once.  "  Perhaps  it  would  do  till  you  can  go  to  school.'' 

"  Could  you  ?     Would  you  ?' ' 

The  boy's  whole  face  shone,  his  eyes  glowed  with  the  light 
of  awakened  hope.  He  felt  his  own  power,  believed  that  he 
could  achieve  something  if  the  first  great  stumbling-block 
were  removed.  Something  of  his  gladness  communicated 
itself  to  Gladys;  showed  itself  in  the  heightened,  delicate 
color  in  her  cheek,  in  the  luster  of  her  eyes.  So  these  two 
desolate  creatures  made  their  first  compact,  binding  about 
them  in  the  very  hour  of  their  meeting  the  links  of  the  chain 
which,  in  the  years  to  come,  love  would  make  a  chain  of  gold. 


CHAPTER  V. 


BEL  GRAHAM'S  business  was  really  that  of  a 
wholesale  drysalter,  in  a  very  small  way.  His 
customers  were  chiefly  found  among  the  small 
shop-keepers  who  abounded  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  as  he  gave  credit  for  a  satisfactory  time,  he  was 
much  patronized.  To  give  credit  to  a  certain  amount 
was  the  miser's  policy.  When  he  once  got  the  unhappy 
debtors  in  his  toils,  it  was  hopeless  to  extricate  themselves, 
and  so  they  continued  paying,  as  they  were  able,  high  prices 
and  exorbitant  interest,  which  left  them  no  chance  of  mak- 
ing any  profit  in  their  own  humble  sphere.  He  had  also 
lent  a  great  deal  of  money,  his  income  from  that  source 
alone  being  more  than  sufficient  to  keep  himself  and  his 
niece  in  modest  comfort,  had  he  so  willed.  But  the  lust  of 
gold  possessed  him.  It  was  nothing  short  of  physical  pain 
for  him  to  part  with  it.  and  he  had  no  intention  of  changing 
his  way  of  life  for  her.  He  was  known  in  the  district  under 
the  elegant  sobriquet  of  Skinny  Graham  ;  and  when  Gladys 
heard  it  for  the  first  time  she  laughed  silently  to  herself, 
thinking  of  its  fitness. 

The   simple-hearted    child    learned    quickly    to    accoiu- 

39 


40  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

modate  herself  to  her  surroundings,  and  accept  her  meager 
lot  with  a  serenity  a  more  experienced  mind  might  have 
envied.  She  even  managed  to  make  a  little  atmosphere 
of  brightness  about  her,  which  at  once  communicated  itself 
to  the  two  who  shared  it  with  her.  They  viewed  this  exqui- 
site change,  it  may  be  believed,  from  an  entirely  different 
stand-point.  The  old  man  liked  the  comfort  and  the  cleanli- 
ness which  the  girl's  busy  hands  made  in  their  humble 
home ;  the  boy  looked  on  with  deep  eyes,  wonderingly,  catch- 
ing glimpses  of  her  white  soul,  and  knowing  that  it  was  far 
above  and  beyond  the  sordid  air  it  breathed.  She  went  out 
a  great  deal,  wandering  alone  and  fearlessly  in  the  streets — 
always  in  the  streets,  because  as  yet  she  did  not  know  that 
even  in  that  great  city,  where  the  roar  and  the  din  of  life  are 
never  still,  and  the  air  but  seldom  clear  from  the  smoke  of 
its  bustle,  are  to  be  found  quiet  resting-places  where  the  gi'een 
things  of  God  grow  in  hope  and  beauty,  giving  their  message 
of  perpetual  promise  tp  the  heart  open  to  receive  it.  Gladys 
would  have  welcomed  that  message  gladly,  ear  and  heart  hav- 
ing been  early  taught  to  wait  and  listen  for  it;  but  as  yet  she 
believed  Glasgow  to  be  but  a  city  of  streets,  of  dull  and  dreadful 
stones,  against  which  the  tide  of  life  beat  remorselessly  for- 
ever. And  such  life !  For  very  pity  the  child's  heart  grew 
heavy  within  her  often  as  she  looked  upon  the  stream  of 
humanity  in  these  poor  streets — on  the  degraded,  hopeless 
faces,  the  dull  eyes,  the  languid  bearing  of  those  who  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  interest  in  and  respect  for  themselves. 
She  beKeved  it  wholly  sad.  Standing  on  the  outside,  she 
knew  nothing  of  the  homely  joys,  the  gleams  of  mirth,  the 
draughts  of  happiness  possible  to  the  very  poor.  She 
thought  their  laughter,  when  it  fell  sometimes  upon  her  ears, 
more  dreadful  than  their  tears.  So  she  slipped  silently  about 
among  them  quite  unnoticed,  looking  on  with  large,  sad  eyes, 
and  almost  as  an  angel  might. 

Sometimes,  when   Gladys    looked    up    to  the    heavens, 
which  even  the  walls  and  the  roofs  of  stone  could  not  shut 


LIZ.  41 

out,  she  wondered  how  God,  who  loved  all  with  such  a  tender 
love,  could  bear  to  have  it  so.  It  vexed  her  soul  with  doubts, 
and  made  her  so  unhappy  that  even  in  her  dreams  she  wept. 
Of  these  things  she  did  not  speak  to  those  about  her  yet, 
though  very  soon  it  became  a  habit  with  her  and  Walter  to 
discuss  the  gravest  problems  of  existence.  The  old  man 
offered  no  objections  to  the  lessons,  only  stipulating  that  no 
unnecessary  candles  should  be  consumed.  He  allowed  but 
one  to  lighten  the  gloom  of  the  large  kitchen,  and  every 
evening  after  tea  the  same  picture  might  have  been  seen — 
the  old  man  dozing  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  the  two 
young  creatures  at  the  little  table  with  books  and  slates ;  the 
unsteady  light  of  the  solitary  candle  flickering  on  their  ear- 
nest faces.  Teacher  and  taught!  Yery  often  in  the  full 
after  years  they  looked  back  upon  it,  and  talked  of  it  with 
smiles,  which  were  not  far  off  from  tears.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  the  companionship  of  Walter  was  the  only 
thing  which  saved  Gladys  from  despair.  But  for  the  bright 
kinship  of  his  presence  she  must  have  sunk  under  the  bui'den 
of  a  life  so  hard — a  life  for  which  she  was  so  unfitted.  But 
they  comforted  each  other,  and  kept  warm  and  true  in  their 
young  hearts  faith  in  human  kind  and  in  the  mercy  of 
Heaven.  As  the  days  went  by,  Walter  dreaded  yet  more  the 
coming  of  Saturday,  which  meant  that  he  must  go  home — 
spent  in  his  own  house  in  Bridgeton — but  as  yet  he  had  not 
spoken  of  his  great  sorrow  to  Gladys.  Only  she  was  quick 
to  notice  how,  as  the  week  went  by  and  Saturday  came,  the 
shadow  deepened  on  his  face.  She  felt  for  him  keenly;  but 
her  perception  was  so  delicate,  so  quick,  she  knew  it  was  a 
sorrow  with  which  she  must  not  intermeddle.  There  were 
very  many  things  in  life,  Gladys  was  learning  day  by  day, 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  death,  which  is  so  often,  indeed,  the 
gentlest  friend.  One  Monday  morning  Walter  appeared 
quite  downcast,  so  unusual  with  him  that  Gladys  could  not 
forbear  asking  what  troubled  him. 

"  It 's  Liz,"  he  said,  relieved  to  be  asked,  though  diffi- 


42  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

dent  in  volunteering  information.      "  She  's  ill — very  badly, 
too — and  she  is  not  looked  after.     I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do." 
Gladys  was  sympathetic  at  once. 

"What  is  it — the  matter  I  mean?  Have  they  had  a 
doctor?" 

"  Yes ;  it 's  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  "  She  's  so  much  in 
the  streets  at  night,  I  think,  when  it 's  wet ;  that 's  where 
she  's  got  it." 

"  I  am  very  sorry.  Perhaps  I  could  do  something  for 
her.  My  father  was  often  ill.  He  was  not  strong,  and 
sometimes  caught  dreadful  chills  painting  outside.  I  always 
knew  what  to  do  for  him.  I  '11  go,  if  you  like." 

The  lad's  face  flushed  all  over.  He  Avas  divided  between 
his  anxiety  for  his  sister,  whom  he  really  loved,  and  his  re- 
luctance for  Gladys  to  see  his  home.  But  the  first  pre- 
vailed. 

"  If  it  would  n't  be  an  awful  trouble  to  you,"  he  said ;  and 
Gladys  smiled  as  she  gave  her  head  a  quick  shake. 

"  No  trouble.  I  shall  be  so  glad.  Tell  me  where  to  find 
the  place,  and  I  '11  go  after  dinner,  before  it  is  dark.  Uncle 
Abel  says  I  must  not  go  out  after  dark,  you  know." 

"  It 's  a  long  way  from  here,  and  you'll  have  to  take  two 
cars." 

"  I  know  the  Bridgeton  car ;  but  may  I  not  walk  ?" 
"  No,  please  take  these  pennies.     When  you  are  going  to 
see  my  sister,  I  should  pay.      Yes,  take  them.      1   want 
you  to." 

Gladys  took  the  coppers,  and  put  them  in  her  pocket. 
She  knew  very  well  they  would  reduce  the  hoard  be  was 
gathering  for  the  purchase  of  a  coveted  book ;  but  she  felt 
that  in  accepting  them  she  was  conferring  a  rare  pleasure  on 
him.  And  it  was  so.  Never  was  subject  prouder  of  a  gift 
accepted  by  a  sovereign  than  Walter  Hepburn  of  the  fact 
that  that  day  Gladys  should  ride  in  comfort  through  the  wet 
streets  at  his  expense.  It  was  another  memory  for  the 
after  years. 


Liz.  43 

In  the  afternoon,  accordingly,  Gladys  dressed  and  went 
out.  Her  uncle  had  provided  her  with  a  warm  winter  cloak, 
which  enveloped  her  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  not  new. 
Had  Gladys  known  where  it  came  from,  and  who  had 
worn  it  before  her,  she  might  net  have  enjoyed  so  much 
solid  satisfaction  in  wearing  it ;  but  though  she  had  been  told 
that  it  was  an  unredeemed  pledge  she  would  not  have  known 
what  it  meant.  It  was  a  dry  afternoon,  though  cloudy  and 
cold.  It  was  so  near  Christmas  that  the  shops  were  gay 
with  Christmas  goods.  But  in  those  who  have  no  money 
to  expend  in  such  luxuries,  the  Christmas  display  can  only 
awaken  a  dull  feeling  of  envy  and  discontent.  By  dint  of 
much  asking  after  leaving  the  car,  Gladys  found  the  street 
where  the  Hepburus  lived.  It  was  not  so  squalid  as  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood  of  her  own  home,  but  it  was  inex- 
pressibly dreary ;  one  of  those  narrow,  long  streets  with 
high  <: lands"  on  either  side,  entered  by  common  stairs,  and 
divided  into  very  small  houses.  Outwardly  it  looked  even 
respectable,  and  was  largely  occupied  by  the  poorer  laboring 
class,  who  often  divided  their  abodes  by  letting  them  out  to 
lodgers.  It  was  one  of  the  streets,  indeed,  where  the  over- 
crowding had  attracted  the  serious  consideration  of  the  author- 
ities. A  bitter  wind,  laden  with  the  promise  of  snow,  swept 
through  it  from  end  to  end,  and  caught  Gladys  in  the  teeth 
as  she  entered  it.  It  was  not  a  very  cheerful  welcome,  and 
Gladys  looked  with  compassion  upon  the  children  playing 
on  the  pavement  and  about  the  doorways,  but  scantily  clad, 
though  their  blue  fingers  and  pinched  faces  did  not  seem  to 
damp  their  merriment.  The  child-heart,  full  of  glee  and 
ready  for  laughter,  always  will  assert  itself  even  in  the  most 
unfavorable  circumstances.  Bound  the  door  which  Gladys 
desired  to  enter  a  little  band  of  boys  and  girls  were  engaged 
playing  the  interesting  game  of  "  Here  'B  the  robbers  pass- 
ing by,"  and  Gladys  stood  still,  watching  them  with  a  kind  of 
quiet,  tender  interest,  trying  to  understand  the  words,  to 
which  they  gave  many  strange  meanings.  They  grew  shy  of 


44  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

the  scrutiny  by  and  by,  and  the  spell  was  broken  by  an  oath 
which  fell  glibly  from  the  lips  of  a  small  boy,  showing  that 
it  was  no  stranger  to  them.  Gladys  looked  inexpressibly 
shocked,  and  hastened  in  to  the  stair,  which  was  very  dirty, 
and  odorous  of  many  evil  smells.  The  steps  seemed  endless ; 
but  she  was  glad,  as  she  mounted,  to  find  the  light  growing 
broader,  until  at  last  she  reached  the  topmost  landing,  where 
the  big  skylight  revealed  a  long  row  of  doors,  each  giving 
entrance  to  a  separate  dwelling.  The  girl  looked  confusedly 
at  them  for  a  moment,  and  then,  recalling  sundry  directions 
Walter  had  given,  proceeded  to  knock  at  the  middle  one.  It 
was  opened  at  once  by  a  young  woman  wearing  a  rusty  old 
black  frock  and  a  large  checked  apron,  a  little  shawl  pinned 
about  her  head  quite  tightly,  and  making  her  face  look  very 
small  and  pinched.  It  was  a  very  pale  face,  quite  ghastly 
in  fact,  the  very  lips  white,  and  her  eyes  surrounded  by 
large  black  circles,  which  made  Gladys  think  she  must  be 
very  ill. 

"Well,  Miss,"  she  said,  coolly  and  curtly,  holding  the 
door  open  only  about  three  inches. 

"Does  Mrs.  Hepburn  live  here?"  asked  Gladys,  thinking 
she  had  made  a  mistake. 

"  Yes ;  but  she 's  no  at  hame.  Come  back  the  morn.  Eh, 
Liz,  will  yer  mither  be  oot  the  morn  ?" 

"Ay ;  ask  her  what  she  wants,"  a  somewhat  husky  voice 
announced  from  the  interior,  followed  by  a  fit  of  coughing 
quite  distressing  to  hear. 

"  0,  is  that  Walter's  sister  who  is  ill  ?"  said  Gladys,  eagerly. 
"  Please,  may  I  come  in  ?  Ask  her.  Tell  her  that  I  have 
come  from  Colquhoun  Street  to  see  her.  I  am  Gladys 
Graham." 

The-young  woman  disappeared  into  the  interior,  a  whis- 
pered consultation  followed,  and  a  general  hurrying  move- 
ment of  things  being  put  straight,  then  Gladys  was  bidden 
come  in. 

She  stepped  into  the  little,  narrow,  dark  passage,  closed 


LIZ.  45 

the  door,  and  entered  the  kitchen  where  the  two  girls  were. 
It  was  quite  a  comfortable  place,  clean  and  warm,  though  the 
air  was  close  and  not  wholesome.  It  had  a  few  articles  of 
kitchen  furniture,  and  two  beds,  one  in  each  corner,  whicTi 
rather  crowded  the  space.  On  one  of  the  beds,  half-lying, 
half-sitting,  was  Liz,  Walter's  sister,  with  .a  blanket  pinned 
round  her  shoulders,  and  a  copy  of  the  "  Family  Eeader  "  in 
her  hand,  open  at  a  thrilling  picture  of  a  young  lady  with  an 
impossible  figure  being  rescued  from  a  runaway  horse  by  a 
youth  of  extraordinary  proportions.  Gladys  entered  the 
kitchen  rather  hesitatingly — the  young  woman  with  the 
sullen,  gray  face  disconcerted  her — but  when  she  looked  at 
Liz  she  smiled  quite  brightly,  and  came  forward  with  a 
quick,  ready  step. 

"How  are  you?  I  am  so  sorry  you  are  ill.  Walter 
thought  I  might  come  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  will  soon  be 
better." 

Liz  allowed  her  hand  to  be  shaken,  and  fixed  her  very 
bright  blue  eyes  keenly  on  the  girl's  sweet  face.  Gladys  felt 
that  she  was  being  scrutinized,  that  the  measure  of  her  sin- 
cerity was  gauged  by  that  look,  but  she  did  not  evade  it. 
With  Liz,  Gladys  was  much  surprised.  She  was  so  different 
from  the  picture  she  had  drawn,  so  different  from  Walter. 
There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  resemblance  between  them. 
Many  would  have  called  Liz  Hepburn  beautiful.  She  was 
certainly  handsome  after  her  kind,  having  straight,  clear-cut 
features,  a  well-formed  if  rather  coarse  mouth,  brilliant  blue 
eyes,  and  a  mass  of  reddish-brown  hair,  which  set  off  the 
extreme  fairness  of  her  skin.  Gladys  felt  fascinated  as  she 
looked,  'though  she  felt  also  that  there  was  something  fierce, 
and  even  wild,  in  the  depths  of  these  eyes.  Evidently  they 
found  satisfaction  in  their  survey  of  the  stranger's  face,  for 
she  laid  down  the  paper  and  gave  her  head  a  series  of  little  nods. 

"  Gie  her  a  chair.  Teen,  and  shove  the  tea-pat  on  to  the 
hob,"  she  said,  offering  to  her  guest  such  hospitality  as  was 
in  her  power. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PICTURES  OF" 


LADYS  sat  down  and  suddenly  became  conscious 
of  what  she  was  carrying,  a  little  flower-pot, 
in  which  bloomed  a  handful  of  Eoman  hya- 
cinths, their  delicate  and  lovely  blossoms  nestling 
among  the  tender  green  of  their  own  leaves, 
and  a  bit  of  hardy  fern.  It  was  her  only  treasure,  which  she 
had  bought  for  a  few  pence  in  the  market  one  morning,  and 
she  had  nothing  else  to  bring  to  Liz. 

"Will  you  take  this?  Is  it  not  very  pretty  ?  I  love  it 
so  much  ;  but  I  have  brought  it  for  you.  My  father  liked  a 
flower  when  he  was  ill." 

Liz  gave  another  enigmatical  nod,  and  a  faint,  slow,  mel- 
ancholy smile  gathered  about  the  lips  of  Teen,  as  she  sat 
down  to  her  work  again,  after  having  stirred  the  fire  and 
pushed  the  dirty,  brown  tea-pot  on  to  the  coals.  In  this 
tea-pot  a  black  decoction  brewed  all  day,  and  was  partaken 
of  at  intervals  by  the  two;  sometimes  they  ate  a  morsel  of 
bread  to  it,  but  other  sustenance  they  had  none.  Little 
wonder  the  face  of  Teen  was  as  cadaverous  as  the  grave. 

Then   followed  an  awkward  silence,  during  which  Liz 
played  with   the   frayed   edge   of   the  blanket,   and   Teen 
46 


PICTURES  OF  LIFE.  47 

stitched  away  for  dear  life  at  a  coarse  garment,  which  ap- 
peared to  be  a  canvas-jacket,  A  whole  pile  of  the  same  lay 
on  the  unoccupied  bed,  and  Glad}-s  vaguely  wondered 
whether  the  same  fingers  must  reduce  the  number,  but  she 
did  not  presume  to  ask.  She  did  not  feel  drawn  to  the  mel- 
ancholy seamstress,  whose  thin  lips  had  a  hard,  cold  curve. 

"  Were  you  reading  when  I  came  in  ?  I  :m  afraid  I  have 
stopped  you."  said  Gladys,  at  length. 

"Ay,  I  was  readin'  to  Teen,  'Lord  Bellew's  Bride ;  or,  The 
Curse  of  Mountford  Abbey;'  splendid,  isn't  it,  Teen?"  said 
Liz.  quite  brightly.  '•  We  buy'd  atwcen  us  every  week.  I'll 
len'  ye'd  if  you  like.  It  comes  oot  on  Wednesday.  Wat 
could  bring'd  on  the  Monday." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Gladys.  "I  have  n't  much 
time.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do  in  the  house.'' 

<(  Hae  ye  ?  Ay,  Wat  telt  me ;  an',  michty.  ye  dinua  look  as 
if  ye  could  due  onything.  The  auld  sinner,  I  'd  pooshin  him." 

Liz  looked  quite  capable  of  putting  her  threat-  into  exe- 
cution, and  Gladys  shrank  a  little  away  from  the  fierceness 
of  her  eyes. 

"  Ye  are  ower  genty.  His  kind  need  somebody  that  '11 
fecht.  If  he  was  my  uncle,  and  had  as  muckle  money  as 
they  say  he  has,  I  'd  walk  oot  in  silk  and  velvet  in  spite  o' 
his  face.  I  'd  hing  them  a'  up,  an'  then  he  'd  need  to  pay." 

Gladys  only  vaguely  understood,  but  gathered  that  she 
was  censuring  the  old  man  with  the  utmost  severity. 

"  0,  I  do  n't  think  he  is  as  rich  as  people  say,  and  he  is 
very  kind  to  me,"  said  she,  quickly.  "  If  he  had  not  taken 
me  when  my  father  died,  I  do  n't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  me." 

"  Imphm.  The  tea  's  bilin',  Teen.  Look  in  my  goon 
pocket  for  a.  penny,  an'  rin  doon  for  twa  cookies." 

The  little  seamstress  obediently  rose,  pushed  back  the 
tea-pot,  and  disappeared. 

"  If  I  wis  you,"  said  Liz,  the  moment  they  Avere  alone, 
and  leaning  forward  to  get  a  better  look  at  Gladys,  "  I  widna 


48  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

bide.  Ye  wad  be  faur  better  workin'  for  yoursel'.  If  ye 
like,  I  '11  speak  for  ye  whaur  I  work,  at  Forsyth's  paper-mill 
in  the  Gorbals.  I  ken  Maister  George  wad  dae  anything  I 
ask  him." 

She  flung  back  her  tawny  locks  with  a  gesture  of  pride, 
and  the  rich  color  deepened  in  her  cheek. 

"  O,  you  are  very  kind ;  but  I  do  n't  think  I  could  work 
in  a  mill.  I  do  n't  know  anything  about  it,  and  I  am  quite 
happy  with  my  uncle,  as  happy  as  I  can  be  anywhere,  away 
from  papa." 

Liz  regarded  her  with  a  look  in  which  contempt  and  a 
vague  wonder  were  oddly  mingled. 

"  Woel,  if  ye  are  pleased,  it 's  na  business  o'  mine,  of 
course.  But  I  think  ye  are  a  fule.  Ye  wad  hae  yer  liberty 
ony  way,  and  I  could  show  ye  a  lot  o'  fun.  There 's  the 
dancin'  skule  on  Saturday  nichts.  It 's  grand,  an  we  're  to 
hae  a  ball  on  Hogmanay.  I  'm  gettin'  a  new  frock,  white 
book-muslin,  trimmed  wi'  green  leaves  an'  a  green  sash. 
Teen 's  gaun  to  mak'  it.  That 's  what  for  I  '11  no  gang  to 
service,  as  my  mither  's  aye  wantin'.  No  me,  to  be  ordered 
aboot  like  a  beast.  I  '11  hae  my  liberty,  an'  maybe  some  day 
I  '11  hae  servants  o'  my  ain.  Naebody  kens.  Lord  Bellow's 
bride  in  the  story  was  only  the  gate-keeper's  dochter,  an' 
that 's  her  on  the  horse,  look,  after  she  was  my  Lady  Bellew. 
Here 's  Teen." 

Breathless  and  panting,  the  little  seamstress  returned  with 
the  cookies,  and  made  a  little  spread  on  the  bare  table. 
Gladys  was  not  hungry,  but  she  accepted  the  proffered  hos- 
pitality frankly  as  it  was  given,  though  the  tea  tasted  like  a 
decoction  of  bitter  aloes.  She  was  horrified  to  behold  the 
little  seamstress  swallowing  it  in  great  mouthfuls  without 
sugar  or  cream.  Gladys  had  sometimes  been  hungry,  but 
she  knew  nothing  of  that  painful  physical  sinking,  the  result 
of  exhausting  work  and  continued  insufficiency  of  food, 
which  the  poisonous  brew  for  the  time  being  overcame. 
Over  the  tea  the  trio  waxed  quite  talkative,  and  "Lord 


PICTURES  OF  LIFE.  49 

Bellew's  Bride  "  was  discussed  to  its  minutest  detail.  Gladys 
wondered  at  the  familiarity  of  the  two  girls  with  dukes 
and  duchesses,  and  other  persons  of  high  degree,  of  whom 
they  spoke  familiarly,  as  if  they  were  next-door  neighbors. 
Although  she  was  very  young,  and  knew  nothing  of  their 
life,  she  gathered  that  its  monotony  was  very  irksome  to 
them,  and  that  they  were  compelled  to  seek  something,  if 
only  in  the  pages  of  an  unwholesome  and  unreal  story,  to  lift 
them  out  of  it.  It  was  evident  that  Liz  at  least  chafed  intoler- 
ably under  her  present  lot,  and  that  her  head  was  full  of  dreams 
and  imaginings  regarding  the  splendors  so  vividly  described 
in  the  story.  All  this  time  Gladys  also,  wondered  more  than 
once  what  had  become  of  the  parents,  of  whom  there  was 
no  sign  visible,  and  at  last  she  ventured  to  put  the  question  : 

"  Is  your  mother  not  at  home  to-day?" 

This  question  sent  the  little  seamstress  off  into  a  fit  of 
silent  laughter,  which  brought  a  dull  touch  of  color  into  her 
cheeks,  and  very  much  improved  her  appearance.  Liz  also 
gave  a  little  short  laugh,  which  had  no  mirth  in  it. 

"No,  she's  not  at  name;  she's  payin'  a  visit  at  Duke 
Street" — and  the  little  grave  nod  with  which  Gladys  received 
this  information  further  intensified  the  amusement  of  the 
two. 

"  Ye  dinna  see  through  it,"  said  Liz,  "so  I'll  gie  ye'd  flat. 
My  faith er  and  mither  are  in  the  jail  for  fechtin'.  They 
were  nailed  on  Saturday  nicht." 

«0h!" 

Gladys  looked  genuinely  distressed,  and,  perhaps,  for  the 
first  time,  Liz  thought  of  another  side  such  degradation  might 
have.  She  had  often  been  angry,  had  felt'  it  keenly  in  her 
own  passionate  way,  but  it  was  always  a  selfish  anger,  which 
had  not  in  it  a  single  touch  of  compassion  for  the  miserable 
pair  who  had  so  far  forgotten  their  duty  to  each  other  and 
to  God. 

"  Gey  bad,  ye  think,  I  see,"  said  Liz  soberly.  "  We  're 
used  to  it,  and  dinna  fash  oiir  thoombs.  She  '11  be  hame  the 

4 


50  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

nicht ;  but  he  's  gotten  thirty  days,  an'  we  '11  hae  a  wee  peace 
or  he  comes  oot." 

Gladys  looked  at  the  indifferent  face  of  Liz  with  a  vague 
wonder  in  her  own.  That  straight,  direct  glance,  which  had 
such  sorrow  in  it,  disconcerted  Liz  considerably,  and  she 
again  turned  to  the  pages  of  Lord  Bellew. 

"Do  n't  you  get  rather  tired  of  that  work?''  asked 
Gladys,  looking  with  extreme  compassion  on  the  little  seam- 
stress, who  was  again  hard  at  work. 

"Tired!  oo  ay.  We  maun  tire  an'  begin  again,"  she 
answered,  dully.  "  It  's  sair  on  the  fingers." 

She  paused  a  moment  to  stretch  out  one  of  her  scraggy 
hands,  which  was  worn  and  thin  at  the  finger  tips,  and 
pricked  with  the  sharp  points  of  many  needles. 

"  It  's  dreadful ;  the  stuff  looks  so  hard.  What  do  you 
make?" 

"  Men's  canvas  jackets,  number  five,  thirteen  pence  the 
dizzen,"  quoted  the  little  seamstress,  mechanically.  "An' 
find  your  ain  thread." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  Gladys. 

"  I  get  a  penny  each  for  them,  an'  a  penny  ower." 

"  For  making  these  great  things  ?" 

"O,  I  dinna  mak'  them  a1.  The  seams  are  run  up  with 
the  machine  afore  I  get  them.  I  pit  in  the  sleeves,  the 
neckbands,  an'  mak'  the  button-holes.  There's  mair  wark 
at  them  than  ye  wad  think." 

"  Is  the  money  not  very  little?" 

"  Maybe,  but  I  'm  gled  to  get  it.  I  'in  no  able  for  the 
mill,  and  I  canna  sterve.  It  keeps  body  an'  soul  thegither; 

eh,  Liz?" 

"  Nae  mair,"  said  Liz,  abstractedly,  again  absorbed  in  her 

paper.     "  But  maybe  our  shot  '11  come." 

Gladys  rose  to  her  feet,  suddenly  conscious  that  she  had 
made  a  very  long  visit.  Her  heart  was  heavier  than  when 
she  came.  More  and  more  was  the  terrible  realism  of  city 
life  borne  in  upon  her  troubled  soul. 


PICTURES  OF  LIFE.  51 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  go  away,"  she  said,  very  quietly. 
"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  }TOU  for  being  so  kind  to  me. 
May  I  come  again  ?" 

'•  0,  if  ye  like,"  said  Liz,  carelessly.  "  But  ye  '11  uo  see 
Teen.  She  lives  doon  the  street.  My  mither  canna  bide 
her,  an'  win  mi  let  her  nose  within  the  door;  so  we  hand  a 
jubilee  when  she  's  nailed." 

"O  please  do  n't  speak  like  that  of  your  mother." 

Liz  looked  quite  thunderstruck. 

"What  for  no?  I've  never  gotten  anything  fraehera' 
my  days  but  ill.  I'll  tell  ye  what — if  I  had  ta'en  her  advice, 
I'd  have  gane  to  the  bad  lang  sync.  Although  she  is  my 
mither,  I  canna  say  black's  white,  so  ye  needna  stare;  and 
it'  ye  are  no  pleased,  ye  needna  come  back.  I  didna  spier 
ye  to  come  ony  way." 

"0  no — pray  forgive  me  if  I  have  made  a  mistake.  I 
am  so  sorry  for  it  all,  only  I  can  not  understand  it." 

"Be  thankfu'  if  ye  dinna,  then,"  replied  Liz,  curtly. 
"I'm  no  very  ceevil  to  you.  I  am  much  oblege  to  ye  for 
comin',  for  the  fiooers,  an'  mair  than  a'  for  teachin'  Wat  to 
read." 

Her  face  became  quite  soft  in  its  outline:  the  harshness 
died  out  of  her  bright  eyes,  leaving  them  lovely  beyond  ex- 
pression. Gladys  felt  drawn  to  her  once  more,  and  leaning 
forward,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  kissed  her  on 
the  brow.  It  was  a  very  simple  act,  no  effort  to  the  child 
who  had  learned  from  her  Knglish  mother  to  give  outward 
expression  to  her  feelings;  but  its  effect  on  Liz  was  very 
strange.  Her  face  grew  quite  red,  her  eyes  brimmed  with 
tears,  and  she  threw  the  blanket  over  her- head  to  smother 
the  sob  which  broke  from  her  lips.  Then  Gladys  bade 
good-bye  to  the  little  seamstress,  and  slipped  away  down  the 
weary  stair  and  into  the  grimy  street,  where  already  the 
lamps  were  lit.  Her  mind  was  full  of  many  new  and 
strange  thoughts  as  she  took  her  way  home,  and  it  was  with 
an  effort  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  attend  to  her 


52  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

simple  duties  for  the  evening.  But  when  the  old  man  and 
the  boy  came  down  from  the  warehouse,  supper  was  ready  as 
usual,  and  there  was  nothing  remarked,  except  that  Gladys 
was  perhaps  quieter  than  usual. 

"Yes,  I  have  been ;  and  I  saw  your  sister,  Walter,"  she 
said  at  last,  when  they  had  opportunity  to  talk  alone.    "  She 
is  much  better,  she  says,  and  hopes  to  get  out  soon." 
"  Did  you  see  anybody  else  ?" 

"  Yes ;  a  friend,  whom  she  called  Teen — I  do  not  know 
her  other  name,"  answered  Gladys. 

"Teen  Balfour— I  ken  her.  An'  what  do  you  think 
of  Liz?" 

He  put  the  question  with  a  furtive  anxiety  of  look  and 
tone  not  lost  on  Gladys. 

"  I  like  her.  At  first  I  thought  her  manner  strange ;  but 
she  has  a  feeling  heart,  too.  And  she  is  very  beautiful." 

"  You  think  so,  too,"  said  the  lad,  with  a  strange  bitter- 
ness ;  "then  it  must  be  true." 

"Why  should  it  not?  It  is  pleasant  to  be  beautiful,  I 
think,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  little  smile. 

"  For  ladies — for  you,  perhaps  it  is ;  but  not  for  Liz,"  said 
Walter.  "It  would  be  better  for  her  if  she  looked  like 
Teen." 

Gladys  did  not  ask  why. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  her,  too.  It  is  so  dreadful,  her 
life,  sewing  all  day  at  these  coarse  garments.  I  have  many 
mercies — more  than  I  thought.  And  for  so  little  money !  It 
is  dreadful,  a  great  sin  ;  do  you  not  think  so?" 

"  0  yes,  it 's  a  sin  ;  but  it 's  the  way  o'  the  world,"  an- 
swered Wattie,  indifferently.  "  Very  likely,  if  I  were  a  man 
and  had  a  big  shop,  I  'd  do  just  the  same — screw  as  much  as 
possible  out  of  folk  for  little  pay.  That 's  gospel." 

Gladys  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  her  eyes  shone 
upon  him.  "  It  will  not  be  your  gospel,  Walter ;  that  I  know. 
Some  day  you  will  be  a  rich  man,  perhaps,  and  then  you  will 
show  the  world  what  a  rich  man  can  do.  Is  n't  there  a  verse 


PICTURES  OF  LIFE.  53 

in  the  Bible  which  says,  '  Blessed  is  he  who  considereth  the 
poor?'  You  will  consider  the  poor  then,  Walter,  and  I  will 
help  you.  We  shall  be  able  to  do  it  all  the  better  because  we 
have  been  so  poor  ourselves." 

It  was  a  new  Evangel  for  that  proud,  restless,  bitter 
young  heart,  upon  which  the  burden  of  life  already  pressed 
so  heavily.  Gladys  did  not  know  till  long  after  that  these 
words,  spoken  out  of  the  fullness  of  her  sympathy,  made  a 
man  of  him  from  that  very  day,  and  awakened  in  him  the 
highest  aspirations  which  can  touch  a  human  soul. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Liz  SPEAKS  HER  MIND. 

|AT,"  said  Liz  Hepburn  to  her  brother  next  time 
he  came  home,  '•  what  kind  o'  a  lassie  is  thon  ?" 

It  was  a  question  difficult  for  Walter  to  an- 
swer, and,  Scotch -like,  he  solved  it  by  putting 
another : 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her?' 
"  I  dinna  ken  ;  she 's  no  like  ither  folk.'' 
"  But  you  liked  her,  Liz,"  said-Walter,  with  quite  evident 
anxiety. 

"  Oo  ay ;  but  she  's  queer.     How  does  she  get   on   wi' 
Skinny?" 

"  Well  enough.     I  believe  he  likes  her,  Liz.  if  he  would 
let  on." 

Liz  made  a  grimace. 

"  I  daursay,  if  he  can  like  onything.     1  telt  her  my  mind 
on  the  business  plain,  an'  offered  to  get  her  into  oor  mill." 

"  O,  Liz,  you  might  have  had  more  sense.     Her  work  in 
a  mill !"  cried  Walter,  with  more  energy  than  elegance. 

"An*  what  for  no?"  queried  Liz,  sharply.      "I  suppose 
she 's  the  same  flesh  an'  bluid  as  me." 

"  Shut  up,  you  twa,"    said  a   querulous,  peevish  voice 
54 


LIZ  SPEAKS  HER  MIND.  55 

from  the  ingle-neuk,  where  the  mother,  dull-eyed,  depressed, 
and  untidy,  sat  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  She  was  in 
a  poor  state  of  health,  and  had  not  recovered  from  the  last 
week's  outburst.  It  was  Saturday  night;  but  there  was  no 
pay  forthcoming  from  the  head  of  the  house,  who  was  still 
in  Duke  Street  prison.  Walter  looked  at  his  mother  fixedly 
for  a  moment,  and  the  shadow  deepened  on  his  face.  She 
was  certainly  an  unlovely  object  in  her  dirty,  unkempt  gown, 
her  hair  half  hanging  on  her  neck ;  her  heavy  face  looking 
as  if  it  had  not  seen  soap  and  water  for  long;  her  dull  eyes 
unlit  by  any  gleam  of  intelligence.  Of  late,  since  they  had 
growTn  more  dissipated  in  their  habits,  Walter  had  fallen  on 
the  plan  of  keeping  back  his  wages  till  the  beginning  of  the 
week — the  only  way  in  which  to  insure  them  food.  Seldom, 
indeed,  was  anything  left  after  Saturday  and  Sunday's 
carousal. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  the  day,  mother?''  he 
asked,  quite  kindly  and  gently,  being  moved  by  a  sudden 
feeling  of  compassion  for  her. 

"  No,  naething ;  but  I  'am  clean  dune.  Wad  ye  no  bring  in 
a  drap,  Wat?"  she  said,  coaxingly,  and  her  eye  momentai'ily 
brightened  with  anticipation. 

"  It  won't  do  you  any  good,  mother,  ye  ken  that,"  he  said, 
striving  still  to  speak  gently,  though  repulsion  now  mingled 
with  his  pity.  "A  good  dinner  or  supper  would  do  ye  more 
good.  I  '11  bring  in  a  bit  steak,  if  ye  '11  cook  it." 

"I 'vc  nae  stammick  for  meat,"  she  said,  relapsing  into 
her  dull  state.  "  I  'm  no  lang  for  this  world,  an'  my  wee 
drap  's  the  only  comfort  I  hae.  Ye '11  maybe  wish  ye  hadna 
been  as  ill  to  me  by  an'  by." 

"  I'm  comin'  alang  some  nicht,  Wat,"  said  Liz,  who  in- 
variably treated  such  remarks  with  the  most  profound  con- 
tempt, ignoring  them  entirely.  "  D  'ye  think  Skinny '11  let 
me  in  ?" 

"  I  dare  say,"  answered  Walter,  abruptly ;  and  sitting 
down  on  the  window-box,  he  looked  through  the  blindless 


5G  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

window  upon  the  masses  of  roofs  and  the  twinkling  lights 
of  the  great  city.  His  heart  was  heavy,  his  soul  sick  within 
him.  His  home,  so  poor  a  home  for  him  and  for  all  who 
called  it  by  that  sweet  name,  had  never  appeared  a  more 
miserable  and  homeless  place.  It  was  not  the  smallness  nor 
the  poverty  of  its  furnishing  which  concerned  him,  but  the 
human  beings  it  sheltered,  who  lay  a  burden  upon  his  heart, 
Liz  was  out  of  bed,  crouching  over  the  fire,  with  an  old  red 
shawl  wrapped  around  her,  a  striking-looking  figure  in  spite 
of  her  general  desfiabille — a  girl  at  whom  all  men  and  many 
women  would  look  twice.  He  wished  she  were  less  striking; 
that  her  appearance  had  matched  the  only  destiny  she  could 
look  for — gray,  meager,  commonplace,  hopeless  as  a  dull  No- 
vember day. 

"Your  courage  is  no  up,  Wat?"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
rather  keenly.  "  What  are  ye  sae  doon  i'  the  mooth  for?" 

Walter  made  no  reply.  Truth  to  tell,  he  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  give  expression  to  his  thoughts. 

"He's  aye  doon  i'  the  mooth  when  he  comes  here,  Liz/' 
said  the  mother,  with  a  passing  touch  of  spirit.  "  We  're 
ower  puir  folk  for  my  lord,  noo  that  he 's  gettin'  among  the 
gentry." 

"The  gentry  of  Argyle  Street  an'  the  Saut-market, 
mother  ?"  asked  Walter,  dryly.  "  They  '11  no  do  much  for  ye." 

"  Is  Skinny  no  gaun  to  raise  yer  screw,  Wat?"  asked  Liz. 
"  It 's  high  time  he  was  thinkin'  on't." 

"I  '11  ask  him  one o'  these  days ;  but  he  might  as  well  keep 
the  money  as  me.  This  is  a  bottomless  pit,"  he  said,  with 
bitterness.  "  It  could  swallow  a  pound  as  quick  as  five  shill- 
ings, an'  never  be  kent." 

"Ye 're  richt,  Wat;  but  I  wad  advise  you  to  stick  in  to 
Skinny.  He  has  siller,  they  say,  an'  may  be  ye  '11  finger  it 
some  day." 

One  night,  not  long  after,  Liz  presented  herself  at  the 
house  in  Colquhoun  Street,  to  return  the  visit  of  Gladys. 
As  it  happened,  Walter  was  not  in,  having  heard  of  a  night- 


LIZ  SPEAKS  HER  MIND.  57 

school  where  the  fees  were  so  small  as  to  be  within  the  range 
of  his  means.  Gladys  looked  genuinely  pleased  to  see  her 
visitor,  though  she  hardly  recognized  in  the  fashionably 
dressed  young  lady  the  melancholy-looking  girl  she  had  seen 
lying  on  the  kitchen  bed  in  the  house  of  the  Hepburns. 

"  Daur  I  come  in?  Would  he  no  be  mad?"  asked  Liz, 
when  they  shook  hands  at  the  outer  door. 

"Do  you  mean  my  uncle?"  asked  Gladys.  "He  will  be 
quite  pleased  to  see  you.  Come  in  ;  it  is  so  cold  here." 

"  For  you,  ay ;  but  I  'm  as  warm 's  a  pie,  see,  wi'  my  new 
fur  cape — four  an'  elevenpence  three  farthings  at  the  Poly- 
technic. Is  n't  it  a  beauty,  an'  dirt  cheap?" 

Thus  talking  glibly  about  what  was  more  interesting  to 
her  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  Liz  followed  Gladys 
into  the  kitchen,  where  the  old  man  sat,  as  usual,  in  his  arm- 
chair by  the  fireside,  looking  very  old  and  wizened  and  frail 
in  the  flickering  glow  of  fire  and  candle-light. 

"This  is  Walter's  sister,  Uncle  Abel,"  Gladys  said,  with 
that  unconscious  dignity  which  singled  her  out  at  once,  and 
gave  her  a  touch  of  individuality  which  Liz  felt,  though  she 
did  not  in  the  least  understand  it.  The  old  man  gave  a  lit- 
tle grunt,  and  bade  her  sit  down.  But,  though  not  talka- 
tive, he  keenly  observed  the  two,  and  saw  that  they  were 
cast  in  a  different  mold.  Liz  looked  well,  flushed  with  her 
walk,  the  dark,  warm  fur  setting  off  the  brilliance  of  her  com- 
plexion, her  clothes  fitting  her  with  a  certain  flaunting  style, 
her  manner  free  from  the  least  touch  of  embarrassment  or 
restraint.  Liz  Hepburn  feared  nothing  under  the  sun. 

"And  are  you  quite  better,  Liz?"  asked  Gladys,  gently, 
with  a  look  of  real  interest  and  sympathy  in  her  face. 

"0,  ay,  I  'm  fine.  Wat 's  no  in?"  she  said,  glancing  in- 
quiringly round  the  place. 

"No,  he  has  heard  of  a  teacher  who  takes  evening  pupils 
for  book-keeping  and  these  things,  and  has  gone  to  make 
arrangements  with  him." 

Never  had  the  nicety  of  her  speech  and  her  sweet,  refined 


58  THE  GUIXEA  STAMP. 

accent  been  more  marked  by  Abel  Graham.  Ho  looked  at 
her  as  she  stood  by  the  table — a  slender,  pale  figure,  with  a 
strange  touch  of  both  child  and  maiden  about  her — and  he 
felt  glad  that  she  was  not  like  Liz.  Not  that  he  thought  ill 
of  Liz,  or  did  not  see  her  beauty — such  as  it  was — only  he 
felt  that  the  maiden  whom  circumstances  had  cast  into  his 
care  and  keeping  was  of  a  higher  type  than  the  red-cheeked, 
bright-eyed  damsel  whom  so  many  admired. 

"An'  when  hae  ye  been  oot,  micht  I  ask  V"  inquired  Liz, 
calmly.  "  Ye  're  a  jimpy-looking  thing." 

"Not  since  Sunday." 

"  Sunday !  Mercy  me !  an'  this  is  Friday.  She  '11  sune 
be  in  her  grave,  Mr.  Graham.  Folk  maun  hae  fresh  air. 
What  way  d  'ye  no  set  her  oot  every  day?" 

"  She  is  welcome  to  go  if  she  likes,  Miss.  I  do  n't  keep 
her  in,"  answered  the  old  man,  tartly. 

"Maybe  no;  but  likely  she  has  that  muckle  adae  she 
canna  get,"  replied  Liz,  fearlessly.  "  It 's  a  fine  nicht ;  sup- 
pose ye  tak'  a  walk  wi'  me.  The  shops  is  no  shut  yet." 

"Shall  I  go,  uncle?"  asked  Gladys. 

"If  ye  want,  certainly;  but  come  in  in  time  of  night. 
Do  n't  be  later  than  nine." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Gladys,  and  retired  into  her  own 
room  to  make  ready  for  her  walk.  Then  Liz,  turning  round 
squarely  on  her  seat,  fixed  the  old  man  fearlessly  with  her 
eyes,  and  gave  him  a  piece  of  her  mind. 

"I  saw  ye  lookin'  at  her  a  meenit  ago,  Maister  Graham, 
an'  maybe  ye  was  thinkin'  the  same  as  me,  that  she 's  no  long 
for  this  world.  Is't  no  a  sin  an'  a  shame  for  a  cratur  like 
that  to  work  in  a  place  like  this  ?  But  it's  waur,  if  it  be  true, 
as -folks  say,  that  there  's  nae  need  for  it." 

So  astonished  was  Abel  Graham  by  this  plain  speaking 
on  the  part  of  a  girl  he  had  never  seen  in  his  life,  that  he 
could  only  staro. 

"  It 's  true,"  added  Liz,  significantly,  "  she  's  yin  o'  the 
kind  they  make  angels  o',  and  that 's  no  my  kind  nor  yours. 


LI/.  SPEAKS  HER  ML\T>.  oiJ 

If  I  were  you  I  'd  see  aboot  it,  or  it  '11  be  the  waur  for  ye, 
may  be,  after/' 

Happily,  just  then  Gladys  returned  for  her  boots;  and  in 
her  mild  excitement  over  having  a  companion  to  walk  with, 
she  did  not  observe  the  very  curious  look  on  her  uncle's  face. 
But  Liz  did,  and  gave  an  inward  chuckle. 

"  How  's  your  father  and  mother?"  he  asked,  making  the 
commonplace  question  a  cover  for  the  start  he  had  got. 

<!  O,  they  are  as  well  as  they  can  expect  to  be,"  Liz  re- 
plied. "  He  cam'  oot  on  Monday.  I  spiered  if  they  had  gien 
him  a  return  ticket  available  for  a  week/' 

The  hard  little  laugh  which  accompanied  these  apparently 
heartless  words  did  not  in  the  least  deceive  Gladys;  and, 
looking  up  from  the  lacing  of  her  boots,  she  flashed  a  glance 
of  quick  sympathy  upon  the  girl's  face,  which  expressed 
more  than  any  words. 

"  They  're  surely  very  ill-kinded,"  was  Abel  Graham's 
comment,  in  rather  a  surprised  tone.  Liz  had  given  him 
more  information  about  her  people  in  five  minutes  than 
Walter  had  done  in  the  two  years  he  had  been  with  him.  The 
difference  between  the  two  was,  that  while  sharing  the  bitter- 
ness of  their  home-sorrows,  the  one  found  a  certain  relief  in 
telling  the  worst,  the  other  shut  it  in  his  heart,  a  grief  to  be 
brooded  over  till  all  life  seemed  tinged  and  poisoned  by  its 
degradation. 

"  O,  it 's  drink,"  she  said,  carelessly.  "  The  same  auld 
story.  Everything  sooms  awa'  in  whisky — they  '11  soom 
awa'  theirsePs  some  day  wi'd  :  that 's  wan  comfort.  I  'm  sure 
that's  wan  thing  Wat  an'  me 's  no  likely  to  'meddle  wi'. 
We  've  seen  ower  muckle  o'  the  misery  o'  drink.  It  '11  never 
be  my  ruin,  onywa}*.  Are  ye  read}-,  Gladys?" 

"  In  a  minute — just  my  hat  and  gloves/'  Gladys  answered, 
and  again  retired. 

"  I  say,  sir,  d'  3-0  no  think  ye  should  raise  Wat's 
wages?  I  had  twa  things  to  say  to  you  the  nicht,  an'  I  've 
said  them ;  ye  needna  fash  to  flyte.  I  'm  no  feared.  If  ye 


60  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

are  a  rich  man,  as  they  say,  ye 're  waur  than  oor  auld  yin, 
for  he  haunds  oot  the  siller  as  long  as  it  lasts." 

"  You  are  a  very  impudent  young  woman,"  said  Abel 
Graham,  "and  not  a  fit  companion  for  my  niece.  I  can't 
let  her  go  out  with  you/' 

"  O,  she  's  gaun  the  nit-lit,  whether  you  let  her  or  no,"  was 
the  calm  answer.  ''And  as  to  being  impident,  some  folk 
ca's  the  truth  impidence,  because  they  're  no  accustomed  to 
it.  But  aboot  Wat,  ye  ken  as  weel  as  me,  ye  micht  seek 
east  an'  west  through  Glesca  an'  no  get  sic  anither.  He  's 
ower  honest.  You  raise  his  wages  or  he  '11  quit,  if  I  should 
seek  a  place  for  him  mj'sel'." 

The  calm  self-assertion  of  Liz,  which  had  something  al- 
most queenly  in  it,  compelled  the  respect  of  the  old  man,  and 
he  even  smiled  a  little  across  the  table  to  the  chair  where  she 
sat  quite  at  her  ease,  delivering  herself  of  these  remarkably 
plain  statements.  In  his  inmost  soul  he  even  enjoyed  them, 
and  felt  a  trifle  sorry  when  Gladys  appeared  ready  to  go. 
Liz  sprang  up  at  once,  and  favored  the  old  miser  with  a 
gracious  nod  by  way  of  farewell. 

"  Guid-nicht  to  ye,  then,  an'  mind  what  I  've  said.  I  was 
in  deid  earnest,  an'  I  'm  richt,  as  ye  '11  maybe  live  to  prove. 
An'  mind  that  there  's  ower  a  wee  pickle  angels  in  Glesca  for 
the  ither  kind,  an'  we  'd  better  tak'  care  o'  what  we  hae." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

D    TOOLS 


|OO.  whaur  wad  ye  like  to  gang?''  inquired  Liz,  as 
they  shut  the  outer  door  behind  them. 

"Anywhere  ;  it  is  pleasant  to  be  out,  only  the 
air  is  not  very  good  here.     Do  you  think  it  is?" 
:i  Maybe    no.      We  ;11  look  at  the  shops  first. 
anyhow,  an'  then  we'll  gang  an'  meet  Teen  Ba'four.     D'ye 
mind  Teen?'' 

'•'  O  yes.  Is  she  quite  well  ?  She  looked  so  ill  that  day 
I  saw  her,  I  could  not  forget  her  face." 

"  O,  she  's  well  enough.  I  think.  I  never  asks.  Oor  kind 
gangs  on  till  they  drap,  and  then  they  maistly  dee,"  said  Liz, 
cheerfully.  "  But  Teen  will  hing  on  awhile  yet  —  she  's  tough. 
I  dinna  see  her  very  often.  My  mither  disna  like  her. 
She  brings  me  the  Reader  on  Fridays.  Eh.  wummin.  'Lord 
Bellew's  Bride'  's  finished.  Everything  was  cleared  up  at 
the  end,  an'  the  young  man  Lord  Bellew  was  jealous  o'  turns 
oot  to  be  only  her  brither.  The  last  chapter  tells  about  the 
christenin'  o'  the  heir,  an'  she  wears  a  white  brocade  gown 
trimmed  wi'  real  pearls  an'  ostrich-feathers.  Fancy  you 
an'  me  in  a  frock  like  that.  Wad  it  no  make  a'  the  differ- 
ence?" 

61 


62  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  I  do  n't  know,  I'  m  sure.  I  never  thought  of  it,"  an- 
swered Gladys,  quietly  amused. 

"Sae  ye  no?  I  often  think  o'd.  If  I  lived  in  a  big 
boose,  rode  in  a  carriage,  an'  wore  a  silk  dress  everyday,  I 
wad  be  happy  an'  guid  too,  maybe.  It 's  easy  to  be  guid 
when  \e  ai*e  rich." 

"  The  Bible  does  n't  say  so.  Do  n't  you  remember  how  it 
explains  that  it  is  so  hard  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  king- 
dom of  heaven?" 

Liz  looked  round  in  a  somewhat  scared  manner  into  her 
companion's  face. 

"  D 'ye  read  the  Bible  ?"  she  asked,  bluntly.  "  I  never  do  ; 
so  I  canna  mind  that.  I  never  thocht  anybody  read  it — or 
.believed  it,  I  mean — except  ministers  that  are  paid  for  it." 
.  "  O.  that  is  quite  a  mistake,"  said  Gladys,  warmly.  "A 
great  many  people  read  it,  because  they  love  it,  and  because 
it  helps  them  in  the  battle  of  life.  I  could  n't  live  without 
it.  Walter  and  I  read  it  every  night." 

Liz  drew  herself  a  little  apart  doubtfully,  and  looked  yet 
more  scrutinizing!}*  into  the  face  of  Gladys. 

"  Upon  my  word  ye  're  less  fit  than  I  thocht  for  this 
warld.  What  were  ye  born  for?  You '11  never  fecht  your 
way  through,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  scornful  pity. 

"  O  yes,  I  will.  Perhaps  if  it  came  to  the  real  fight,  I 
should  prove  stronger  than  you,  just  because  I  have  that 
help.  Dear  Liz,  it  is  dreadful,  if  it  is  true,  to  live  as  you  do. 
Are  you  not  afraid  ?" 

"I  fear  nothing,  except  gaun  into  consumption,  an'  haein' 
naebody  to  look  after  me,"  responded  Liz.  "  If  it  came  to 
that,  I  'd  tak'  something  to  pit  an  end  to  mysel'.  My  mind's 
made  up  on  that  lang  syne." 

She  looked  quite  determined,  her  full  red  lips  firmly  set, 
and  her  eyes  looking  straight  before  her,  calm,  steadfast,  un- 
daunted, in  corroboration  of  her  boast  that  she  feared  nothing 
in  the  world. 


EDGED  TOOLS.  G3 

"  But,  Liz.  tbat  would  be  very  wicked,"  said  Gladys,  in 
distress.  "  We  have  never  more  to  bear  than  we  are  able. 
God  takes  care  of  that  always.  But  I  am  sure  you  are  only 
speaking  in  haste.  I  think  you  have  a  great  deal  of  courage — 
too  much  to  do  that  kind  of  thing." 

"Dinua  preach,  or  we '11  no  gree,"  said  Liz,  almost  rudely. 
'•  Let 's  look  at  the  hats  in  this  window.  I  '11  hae  a  new  one 
next  pay.  Look  at  that  crimson  velvet  wi'  the  black  wings ; 
it 's  awfu'  neat,  an'  only  six-and-nine.  D  'ye  no  think  it  wad 
set  me?" 

"  Yery  likely.  You  look  very  nice  always,"  answered 
Gladys,  truthfully,  and  the  sincere  compliment  pleased  Liz, 
though  she  did  not  say  so. 

"  Well,  look,  it 's  ten  meenits  past  aicht.  We  were  to 
meet  Teen  in  the  Trongate  at  the  quarter.  We  '11  need  to 
turn  back." 

"  And  where  will  we  go  after  that?"  inquired  Glad}-s. 
"  The  shops  are  beginning  to  shut."* 

'•You'll  see.  We've  a  ploy  on.  I  want  to  gie  you  a 
treat.  You  dinna  get  mony  o'  them." 

She  linked  her  arm  with  friendly  familiarity  into  that  of 
Gladys,  and  began  to  chatter  on  again,  chiefly  of  dress, 
which  was  dear  to  her  soul.  Her  talk  was  not  interesting  to 
Gladys,  who  was  singularly  free  from  that  feminine  weakness, 
love  of  fine  attire.  Xo  doubt  she  owed  this  to  her  upbring- 
ing, having  been  always  alone  with  her  father,  and  know- 
ing very  few  of  her  own  sex.  But  she  listened  patiently 
to  Liz's  minute  account  of  the  spring  clothes  she  had  in  view, 
and  even  tried  to  make  some  suggestions  on  her  own  account. 
It  was  with  something  of  a  relief,  however,  that  she  beheld 
among  the  crowd  at  last  the  slight  figure  and  pale  counte- 
nance of  Teen. 

"  Guid  e'enin'  to  you,"  Teen  said,  in  her  monotonous 
voice,  and  without  a  smile  or  brightening  of  her  face.  "  Fine, 
dry  nicht.  We're  late,  Liz,  ten  minutes.'' 


64  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  O,  it  doesna  matter.  We  '11  mak'  a  sensation,"  said  Liz, 
with  a  grim  smile.  "A'  the  same,  we  better  hurry  up  an' 
get  oor  sixpence  worth. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  asked  Gladys,  rather  doubtfully. 

"  0,  ye  '11  see.  I  promised  you  a  treat,"  answered  Liz,  and 
tire  trio  quickened  their  steps  until  they  came  to  a  narrow 
entrance,  illuminated,  however,  by  a  blaze  of  gas-jets,  and 
adorned  about  the  doorway  with  sundry  bills  and  pictures  of 
music-hall  artistes. 

Before  Gladys  could  utter  the  least  protest  she  was  whisked 
in,  paid  for  at  the  box,  and  hurried  up-stairs  into  a  brilliantly 
lighted  hall,  the  atmosphere  of  which,  however,  was  reeking 
with  the  smoke  and  the  odor  of  tobacco  and  cheap  cigars. 
Somebody  was  singing  in  a  high,  shrill,  unlovely  voice,  and 
when  Gladys  looked  towards  the  platform,  behind  the  foot- 
lights, she  was  horrified  at  the  spectacle  of  a  large,  coarse- 
looking  woman,  wearing  the  scantiest  possible  amount  of 
clothing,  her  face  painted  and  powdered,  her  hair  adorned 
with  gilt  spangles,  her  arms  and  neck  hung  with  sham  jewelry. 

"  Who 's  she  ?  Is  it  not  awful  ?"  whispered  Gladys,  which 
questions  sent  the  undemonstrative  Teen  off  into  one  of  her 
silent  fits  of  laughter. 

But  Liz  looked  a  trifle  annoyed. 

"  Do  n't  ask  such  silly  questions.  That 's  Mademoiselle 
Frivol,  and  she  's  appearing  in  a  new  character.  It 's  an 
awful  fanny  song,  evidently.  See  how  they  're  laughin'.  Be 
quiet,  an'  let 's  listen." 

Gladys  held  her  peace,  sank  into  the  seat  beside  Liz,  and 
looked  about  her  in  a  kind  of  horrified  wonder. 

It  was  a  large  place,  with  the  gallery  opposite  the  stage. 
The  seats  in  the  body  of  the  hall  were  movable,  and  not  set 
closely  together,  in  order  that  the  audience  might  be  able  to 
move  about.  It  was  very  full — a  great  many  young  men, 
well-dressed,  and  even  gentlemanly,  in  outward  appearance 
at  least;  the  majority  were  smoking.  The  women  present 
were  mostly  young,  many  of  them  mere  girls,  and  there  was 


EDGED  TOOLS.  65 

a  great  deal  of  talking  and  bantering  going  on  between  them 
and  the  young  men. 

Those  in  the  gallery  were  evidently  of  the  poorer  class, 
and  they  accompanied  the  chorus  of  the  song  with  a  vigor- 
ous stamping  of  feet  and  whistling  accompaniment.  "When 
.Mademoiselle  Frivol  had  concluded  her  performance  with  a 
little  dance,  which  brought  down  the  house,  there  was  a  short 
interval,  and  presently  some  young  men  sauntered  up  to  the 
three  girls,  and  bade  them  good-evening  in  an  easy,  familiar 
way,  which  made  the  color  leap  to  the  cheek  of  Gladys,  though 
she  did  not  know  why.  She  knew  nothing  about  young  men, 
and  had  no  experience  to  enable  her  to  discern  the  fine  shades 
of  their  demeanor  towards  women ;  but  that  innate  delicacy 
which  is  the  safeguard  and  the  unfailing  monitor  of  every 
woman  until  she  willfully  throws  it  away  forever,  told  the 
pure-minded  girl  that  something  was  amiss,  and  that  it  was 
no  place  for  her. 

"Who  's  your  chum,  old  girl?"  asked  a  gorgeous  youth, 
who  wore  an  imitation  diamond  breast-pin  and  finger-ring. 
"  Give  us  an  introduction,  Miss  Hepburn." 

He  did  not  remove  his  cigar,  but  looked  down  upon  the 
pale  face  of  Gladys  with  a  kind  of  familiar  approval  which 
hurt  her,  and  made  her  long  to  flee  from  the  place. 

"No;  shut  up,  an'  let  her  a-be,"  answered  Liz,  tartly. 
"  Have  ye  a  program  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  deserve  it  for  being  so  shabby,"  said 
the  gorgeous  youth,  putting  on  a  double  eye-glass,  and  still 
honoring  Gladys  with  his  attention. 

"  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  the  performance,  Miss,"  he  added. 
"  Did  you  hear  Frivol's  song?  It  was  very  clever,  quite  the 
hit  of  the  evening." 

Gladys  never  opened  her  mouth.  When  she  afterwards 
looked  back  on  that  experience,  she  wondered  how  she  had 
been  able  to  preserve  her  calm,  cold  unconcern,  which  very 
soon  convinced  the  youth  that  his  advances  were  not  wel- 
come. Liz  looked  round  at  her,  and  noting  the  proud,  con- 

5 


68  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

temptuous  curl  of  the  girl's  sweet  lips,  laughed  up  in  his 
face. 

"  It 's  no  go,  Mr.  Sinclair.  Let 's  see  that  program,  an' 
dinnabe  mean." 

But  the  discomfited  Mr.  Sinclair,  in  no  little  chagrin, 
departed  as  rudely  as  he  came. 

"  Ye  dinna  want  a  gentleman  lover,  Gladys,"  whispered 
Liz.  "  He's  struck,  onybody  can  see  that,  an'  he 's  in  busi- 
ness for  himsel".  I  'm  sure  he 's  masher  enough  for  you. 
Wull  I  gie  him  the  hint  to  come  back?" 

"  I  'm  going  home,  Liz.  This  is  no  place  for  me,  nor  for 
any  of  us,  I  know  that,"  said  Gladys,  quite  hotly  for  her. 

"O  no;  you're  no.  We  must  hae  oor  sixpence  worth. 
Bide  or  nine,  onyhoo.  That's  just  twenty  meenits.  Here 's 
the  acrobats;  ye  '11  like  that." 

The  acrobatic  performance  fascinated  Gladys  even,  while 
it  horrified  and  almost  made  her  sick.  She  watched  every 
contortion  of  the  bodies  with  the  most  morbid  and  intense 
interest,  though  feeling  it  to  be  hideous  all  the  time.  It  ex- 
cited her  very  much,  and  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  shone 
with  unwonted  brilliance.  When  it  was  over,  she  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"I'm  going  out,  Liz.  This  is  a  bad  place;  I  know  it  is. 
I  'm  going  home." 

Liz  looked  up  with  annoyance  at  the  clock. 

"  Ps  too  bad;  aichteen -pence  aw  a' for  naething;  but  I 
suppose  we  maun  gang.  I  've  to  leave  mysel'  onyway  at 
nine.  Ye'll  bide,  Teen,  yersel'." 

"  No  me.  There  's  no  much  the  nicht  anyway,"  answered 
Teen,  and  her  weird  black  eyes  wandered  restlessly  through 
the  hall,  as  if  looking  in  vain  for  an  absent  face.  So  the 
three  quitted  the  place  in  less  than  half  an  hour  after  they 
had  entered  it. 

One  of  the  .audience  watched  their  movements,  and  left 
the  hall  immediately  behind  them  by  another  door.  As  they 
moved  along  the  busy  street  some  one  touched  Liz  on  the 


EDGED  TOOLS.  67 

shoulder,  and  Gladys  felt  her  hand  tremble  as  it  lay  on 
her  arm. 

'•I  maun  say  guid-nicht  here,  Gladys,'  she  said,  hur- 
riedly, and  her  cheeks  were  aflame.  "  I  'm  vexed  ye  didna 
like  the  play.  I  meant  it  weel.  Ye  '11  see  her  hame,  Teen  ?'' 

"Ay,"  answered  Teen,  and  next  moment  Liz  was  gone. 
Gladys,  glancing  back,  saw  her  cross  the  street  beside  a  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  handsome-looking  man,  though  she  could 
not  sec  his  face. 

"That's  her  beau,"  said  Teen,  with  a  nod.  "He's  a 
swell;  that's  what  for  she  has  her  best  claes  on.  They're 
awa'  for  a  walk  noo.  He  was  in  the  hall,  but  I  didna  see 
him." 

"Is  she  going  to  be  married  to  him?"  inquired  Gladys, 
with  interest. 

"  She  hopes  sae  ;  but — but — I  wadna  like  to  swear  by  it. 
He  's  a  slippery  customer,  an'  aye  was.  I  ken  a  lassie  in 
Dennistoun  he  carried  on  as  far  as  Liz ;  but  I  'm  no  feared 
for  Liz.  She  can  watch  hersel'." 

A  strange  feeling  of  weariness  and  vague  terror  came 
over  Gladys.  Day  by  day  more  of  life  was  revealed  to  her, 
and  added  to  her  great  perplexity.  She  did  not  like  the 
phase  with  which  she  had  that  night  made  acquaintance. 
Conversation  did  not  flourish  between  them,  and  they  were 
glad  to  part  at  the  corner  of  the  Lane.  Gladys  ran  up  to 
the  house,  feeling  almost  as  if  somebody  pursued  her,  and 
she  was  out  of  breath  when  she  reached  the  door.  Walter 
had  returned  from  his  first  evening  lesson,  and  great  had 
been  his  disappointment  to  find  Gladys  out.  He  was  quick 
to  note  when  she  entered  the  kitchen  certain  signs  of  nerv- 
ous excitement,  which  made  him  wonder  where  she  had  been. 

"  It 's  nearly  half-past  nine,"  said  the  old  man,  crossly. 
"  Too  late  for  you  to  be  in  the  streets.  Get  to  bed  now,  and 
be  up  to  work  in  the  morning." 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  said  Gladys,  meekly,  and  retired  to  her  own 
room  thankfully,  to  lay  off"  her  bonnet  and  cloak.  "Walter 


88  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

hung  about  by  the  dying  fire  after  the  old  man  went  up  to 
take  his*  nightly  survey  of  the  premises,  and  at  last  Gladys 
came  back. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  lesson,  Walter?"  she  asked,  with  a 
slight  smile. 

"  0,  splendid !  What  a  thing  it  is  to  learn  !  I  feel  as  if 
I  could  do  anything,  now  I  have  begun,"  he  cried,  enthusi- 
astically. "  Mr.  Kobertson  was  so  kind.  He  will  give  me 
Euclid  as  well  for  the  same  money.  He  says  he  sees  I  am  in 
earnest.  Life  is  a  fine  thing  after  all,  sometimes." 

"Yes."  Gladys  looked  upon  his  face,  flushed  with  the 
fine  enthusiasm  of  youth,  with  a  slight  feeling  of  envy.  She 
felt  very  old,  and  tired,  and  sad. 

"  And  you  've  been  out  with  Liz,"  he  said  then,  seeing 
that,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  she  was  not  so  interested 
as  usual  in  his  pursuits.  "  Where  did  she  take  you  ?" 

"  To  a  music-hall — not  a  nice  place,  Walter,"  said  Gladys, 
almost  shamefacedly.  His  color,  the  flush  of  quick  anger, 
leaped  in  his  cheek. 

"  A  music-hall !  I  should  just  say  it  is  n't  a  nice  place. 
How  dared  she?  I  see  Liz  needs  me  to  talk  to  her  plainly, 
and  I  will  next  time  I  see  her,'1  he  began  hotly ;  but  just 
then  the  old  man  returned,  and  they  kept  silence.  But  the 
evening's  "  ploy  "  disturbed  them  both  all  night,  though  in  a 
different  way. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHANGE. 

T  was  an  eventful  year.  Spring  succeeded  the 
fogs  and  frosts  of  winter;  sunny  skies  and 
warmer  airs  came  again,  bringing  comfort  to 
those  who  can  not  buy  artificial  heat,  so  making 
gladness  in  cities,  and  a  wonder  of  loveliness 
in  country  places,  where  Xature'reigns  supreme.  The  hardy 
flowers  which  Gladys  planted  in  the  little  yard  grew  and 
blossomed ;  the  solitary  tree,  in  spite  of  its  loneliness,  put 
forth  its  fresh,  green  buds,  and  made  itself  a  thing  of  beauty 
in  the  maiden's  eyes.  In  that  lonely  home  the  tide  of  life 
flowed  evenly.  The  old  man  made  his  bargains,'  cutting 
them  perhaps  a  trifle  less  keenly  than  in  former  years.  The 
lad,  approaching  young  manhood,  did  his  daily  work  and 
drank  yet  deeper  of  the  waters  of  knowledge,  becoming  day 
by  day  more  conscious  of  his  power,  more  full  of  hope  and 
high  ambition  for  the  future.  And  the  child,  Gladys,  ap- 
proaching womanhood  also,  contentedly  performed  her  lowly 
tasks,  and  dreamed  her  dreams  likewise,  sometimes  wonder- 
ing vaguely  how  long  this  monotonous,  gray  stream  would 
flow  on,  yet  not  wishing  it  disturbed  lest  greater  ills  than 
she  knew  might  beset  her  way. 

69 


70  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Again  winter  came ;  and  just  when  spring  was  gathering 
up  her  skirts  to  spread  them  benignly  over  the  earth,  a  great 
change  came — a  very  great  change  indeed. 

It  was  a  March  day — cold,  bitter,  blustering,  east  winds 
tearing  through  the  streets,  and  catching  the  breath  with  a 
touch  of  ice — when  the  old  man.  who,  to  the  observant,  eye 
had  become  of  late  decrepit  and  very  frail-looking,  came 
shivering  down  from  his  warehouse,  and,  creeping  to  the 
fire,  tried  to  warm  his  chilled  body,  saying  he  felt  himself 
very  ill. 

"  I  think  you  should  go  to  bed,  uncle,  and  Walter  will  go 
for  the  doctor,"  said  Gladys,  in  concern.  "  Shall  I  call  him 
now  ?" 

"  No ;  I  '11  go  to  bed,  and  you  can  give  me  something. 
There  's  my  keys ;  you  '11  get  the  medicine-bottle  on  the  top 
shelf  of  the  press.  I  won't  send  for  the  doctor  yet.  You 
can't  get  them  out  when  once  they  get  a  foot  in,  and  their 
fees  are  scandalous.  No,  I  '11  have  no  doctors  around 
here." 

Gladys  knew  very  well  that  it  was  useless  to  dispute  his 
decision,  and  taking  his  keys  ran  lightty  up-stairs  to  the 
warehouse. 

"  I  am  afraid  Uncle  Abel  is  quite  ill,  Walter,"  she  said, 
as  she  unlocked  the  cupboard.  "  He  shivers  very  much, 
and  looks  so  strangely.  Do  you  not  think  we  should  have 
the  doctor?" 

"Yes;  but  he  won't  have  him.  I  think*  he  looks  very 
bad.  He  's  been  bad  for  days,  and  his  cough  is  awful,  but  he 
won't  give  in." 

"  If  he  is  not  better  to-morrow,  3Tou  will  just  go  for  the 
doctor  yourself,  Walter.  After  he  is  here,  uncle  can't  say 
much,"  said  Gladys,  thoughtfully.  "  I  will  do  what  I  can 
for  him  to-day.  I  am  afraid  he  looks  very  like  papa.  I 
do  n't  like  his  eyes.  ' 

She  took  the  bottle  down,  and  retired  again  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile,  the  only  inspiration  known  to  the  soul  of  Wai- 


AN  IMPENDING  CHANGE.  71 

tor.  It  was  not  of  the  old  man  he  thought  as  he  busied 
himself  among  the  goods,  but  of  the  fair  girl  Avho  had  come 
to  him  in  his  desolation  as  a  revelation  of  everything  lovely 
and  of  good  report.  The  effects  of  the  compound  sent  the 
old  man  off  into  a  heavy  sleep,  during  which  he  got  a  respite 
from  his  racking  cough.  It  was  late  afternoon  when  he 
awoke,  and  Gladys  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  fading  light, 
idle  for  a  \vonder,  though  her  work  lay  on  her  lap.  It  was 
too  dark  for  her  to  see,  and  she  feared  to  move  lest  she 
should  awaken  the  sleeper.  He  was  awake,  however,  some 
time  before  she  was  aware,  and  he  lay  looking  at  her  in- 
tently, his  face  betokening  thought  of  the  most  serious 
kind.  She  was  startled  at  length  by  his  utterance  of  her 
name. 

"Yes,  uncle,  you  have  had  a  fine  sleep,  so  many  hours. 
See,  it  is  almost  dark,  and  Walter  will  be  down  presently," 
she  said,  brightly.  "Are  you  ready  for  tea,  now?" 

She  came  to  his  bedside,  and  looked  down  upon  him  as 
tenderly  as  if  he  had  been  the  dearest  being  to  her  on 
earth. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  quickly. 
"  The  best  girl  in  the  whole  world." 

Her  face  flushed  with  pleasure  at  this  rare  praise. 

"  I  am  very  glad,  uncle,  if  you  think  so,"  she  said,  gently. 
"And  now  what  can  the  best  girl  in  the  world  do  to  keep  up 
her  reputation?  Is  the  pain  away?" 

"Almost ;  it  is  not  so  bad,  anyhow.  Do  you  think  I  'm 
dying,  Gladys?" 

She  gave  a  quick  start,  and  her  cheek  blanched  slightly 
at  this  sudden  question. 

"  O  no !  "Why  do  you  ask  such  a  thing,  uncle  ?  You  have 
only  got  a  very  bad  cold — a  chill  in  that  cold  place  up  there. 
I  wonder  you  have  escaped  so  long." 

"Ay,  it  is  rather  cold.  I  've  been  often  chilled  to  the  bone, 
and  I  've  seen  Walter's  fingers  blue  with  cold,"  he  said. 
"  You  '11  run  up  soon  and  tell  him  to  haul  all  the  soap-boxes 


72  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

out  of  the  fire-place,  and  build  up  a  big  fire  to  be  ready  for 
the  morning,  lighted  the  first  thing." 

"  Very  well,  uncle ;  but  I  do  n't  think  I  '11  let  you  up- 
stairs to-morrow." 

"It 's  for  Walter,  not  for  me.  If  I  'm  better,  I  've  some- 
thing else  to  do  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  we  '11  see,"  said  Gladys,  briskly.  "  Now,  I 
must  set  on  the  kettle.  Would  n't  you  like  something 
for  tea?" 

"  No,  nothing.  I  Ve  no  hunger,"  he  answered,  and  his 
eyes  followed  her  as  she  crossed  the  floor  and  busied  herself 
with  her  accustomed  skill  about  the  fire-place. 

"  You  're  an  industrious  creature.  Nothing  comes 
amiss  to  you,"  he  said,  musingly.  "  It 's  a  poor  life  for 
a  young  woman  like  you.  I  wonder  you've  stood  it 
so  long?" 

"  It  has  been  a  very  good  life  on  the  whole,  uncle," 
Gladys  replied,  cheerfully.  "  I  have  had  a  great  many  bless- 
ings. I  never  go  out,  but  I  feel  how  many.  And  I  have 
always  tried  to  be  contented." 

"  Have  you  never  been  very  angry  with  me,"  he  asked, 
unexpectedly. 

"  No,  never ;  but — " 

"But  what?" 

"  Sorry  for  you  often." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  did  not  take  all  the  good  of  life  you 
might." 

"How  could  I?  A  poor  man  can't  revel  in  the  good 
things  of  life,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  touch  of  irritation. 

"  No,  quite  true ;  but  some  poor  people  seem  to  make 
more  out  of  small  things.  That  was  what  I  meant,"  said 
Gladys,  meekly.  "  But  we  must  not  talk  anything  disagree- 
able, uncle;  it  is  not  good  for  you." 

"  But  I  want  to  talk.  I  say,  were  you  disappointed  be- 
cause I  never  took  you  into  Ayrshire  in  the  summer?" 


AN  IMPENDING  CHANGE.  73 

"Yes,  uncle,  a  little,  but  it  soon  passed.  When  summer 
comes  again  you  will  take  me,  I  am  sure." 

"  You  will  go  anyhow,  whether  I  do  or  not,"  he  said, 
pointedly.  "  Will  you  tell  me,  child,  what  you  think  of 
Walter?" 

"  Of  Walter,  uncle?"  Gladys  paused,  with  her  hand  on 
the  cupboard  door,  and  looked  back  at  him  with  a  slightly 
puzzled  air. 

"Yes.     Do  you  think  him  a  clever  chap?" 

"I  do.  I  think  he  can  do  anything,  Uncle  Abel,"  she 
replied,  warmly.  "  Yes,  Walter  is  very  clever." 

"And  good?" 

"And  good.  You  and  I  know  that  there  are  few  like 
him,"  was  her  immediate  reply. 

"And  you  like  him." 

"  Of  course  I  do ;  it  would  be  very  strange  if  I  did  not," 
she  replied,  without  embarrassment. 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  be  capable  of  filling  a  much 
higher  post  than  he  has  at  present?" 

"  Of  course  I  do ;  and  if  you  will  not  be  angry  I  will  say 
that  I  have  often  thought  that  you  do  not  pay  him  enough 
of  money." 

"  There  's  nothing  like  going  through  the  hards  in  youth. 
It  won't  do  him  any  harm,"  said  the  old  man.  "He  won't 
suffer  by  it.  1  promise  you  that." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  when  he  has  educated  himself — which 
won't  be  long  now,  Uncle  Abel,  he  is  getting  on  so  fast — he 
will  not  stay  here.  We  could  not  expect  it." 

"  Why  not,  if  there  's  money  in  it?" 

"7s  there  money  in  it?" 

A  shrewd  little  smile  wreathed  her  lips,  and  her  whole 
manner  indicated  that  her  sense  of  humor  was  touched. 

"  There  's  money  in  most  things  if  they  are  attended  to," 
he  said,  with  his  usual  evasiveness.  "And  a  young,  strong 
man  can  work  up  a  small  thing  into  a  paying  concern  if  he 
watches  his  opportunity.  • 


74  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

'  Money  is  not  everything,"  Gladys  replied,  as  she  began 
to  spread  the  cloth  ;  "but  it  can  do  a  great  deal." 

"Ay,  you  are  right,  my  girl ;  this  is  a  poor  world  to  live 
in  without  it.  Suppose  you  were  a  rich  woman,  what  would 
you  do  with  your  money?" 

"Help  people  who  have  none;  it  is  the  only  use  money 
is  for." 

"Now  you  speak  out  of  ignorance,"  said  the  old  man, 
severely.  "  Do  n't  you  know  that  there  's  a  kind  of  people — 
Walter's  parents,  for  instance — whom  it  is  not  only  useless 
but  criminal  to  help  with  money?  Just  think  of  the  poor 
lad's  case.  He  has  only  had  a  small  wage,  certainly;  but  if 
it  had  been  three  times  bigger  it  would  have  been  the  same 
thing." 

Gladys  knit  her  brows  perplexedly. 

"It  is  hard,  uncle,  certainly.  The  plan  would  be  to  help 
them  in  a  different  way." 

"But  how?  There  are  plenty  rich  and  silly  women  in 
Glasgow  who  are  systematically  fleeced  by  the  undeserving 
poor — people  who  have  no  earthly  business  to  be  poor — 
who  have  hands  and  heads  which  can  give  them  a  com- 
petence, only  they  are  moral  idiots.  No  woman  should 
be  allowed  full  use  of  large  sums  of  money.  She  is  so 
soft-hearted,  she  can't  say  no,  and  she 's  imposed  on  half 
the  time." 

"  You  are  very  hard  on  women,  Uncle  Abel,"  said  Gladys, 
still  amused  with  his  enthusiasm.  She  had  no  fear  of  him. 
Although  there  was  not  much  in  common  between  them, 
there  was  a  kind  of  quiet  understanding,  and  they  had  many 
discussions  of  the  kind.  "  I  would  rather  be  poor  always, 
Uncle  Abel,  if  I  were  not  allowed  to  spend  as  I  wished. 
I  should  just  have  to  learn  to  be  prudent  and  careful  by 
experience." 

"Ay,  by  experience,  which  would  land  you  in  the  poor- 
house.  Have  you  no  desire  for  the  things  other  women 
like — fine  clothes,  trinkets,  and  such  like?" 


^AT  IMPENDING  CHANGE.  75 

"I  don't  know,  uncle,  because  I  have  never  bad  an}*,'' 
said  Gladys,  with  a  little  laugh.  "I  dare  say  I  should  like 
them  very  well." 

The  old  man  gave  a  grunt,  and  turned  on  his  pillow,  as 
if  tired  of  talk. 

Glad}-s  busied  herself  with  the  evening  meal,  and 
when  it  was  ready  called  "Walter  down.  It  was  a  pretty 
sight  to  see  her  waiting  on  the  old  man.  attending  to 
his  comforts,  and  coaxing  him  to  eat.  In  the  evening  she 
ran  out  to  get  some  medicine  for  him  ;  and  when  he  was 
left  with  Walter,  busy  at  his  books  at  the  table,  he  sat  up 
suddenly,  as  if  he  had  something  interesting  and  impor- 
tant to  say. 

"How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  learning,  Wat?  You 
are  pretty  constant  at  it.  If  there  's  anything  in  application 
you  should  succeed.'' 

"  It's  pretty  tough  work,  though,  when  a  fellow  's  getting 
older." 

"Older,"  repeated  the  old  man  with  a  quiet  chuckle. 
"  How  old  are  you?" 

"Nineteen." 

"Nineteen,  are  you?  "Well,  you  look  it.  You  've  vastly 
improved  of  late.  I  suppose  you  think  yourself  rather  an 
ill-used  sort  of  person — ill-used  by  me,  I  mean." 

"I  don't  think  you  pay  me  enough,  if  you  mean  that," 
said  Walter,  with  a  little  laugh.  •'  But  I  'm  going  to  ask  arise." 

"  Why  have  you  staid  here  so  long,  if  that  is  your  mind  ? 
Nobody  was  compelling  you." 

"No;  but  I  've  got  used  to  the  place,  and  I  like  it."  re- 
turned Walter,  frankly;  but  he  bent  his  eyes  on  his  books, 
as  if  there  was  something  more  behind  his  words  which  he 
did  not  care  should  be  revealed. 

"  I  see — it 's  each  man  for  himself  in  this  world,  and  de'il 
tak'  the  hindmost,  as  the}*  say ;  but  I  do  n't  think  you  '11  be 
hindmost.  Suppose,  now,  you  were  to  find  yourself  the  boss 
of  this  concern,  what  would  you  do?" 


76  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Carry  it  on  as  best  I  could,  sir,"  answered  Walter,  in 
surprise. 

"  Ay,  but  how?  I  suppose  you  think  you  'd  reorganize 
it  all,"  said  the  old  man,  rather  sarcastically. 

"  Well,  I  would,"  admitted  Walter,  frankly. 

"  In  what  way  ?    Just  tell  me  how  you  'd  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  'd  be  off,  somehow  or  other,  with  all  these  old 
debts,  sir,  and  then  I  'd  begin  a  new  business  on  different 
principles.  I  could  n't  stand  so  much  carrying  over  of  old 
scores  to  new  accounts,  if  I  were  on  my  own  hook.  You 
never  know  where  you  are,  and  its  cruel  to  the  poor  wretches 
who  are  always  owing.  They  can't  have  any  independence. 
It's  a  poor  way  of  doing  business." 

"  0,  indeed !  You  are  not  afraid  to  speak  your  mind,  my 
young  bantam.  And  pray,  where  did  you  pick  up  all  these 
high  and  mighty  notions  ?" 

"  They  may  be  high  and  mighty,  sir,  but  they  're  com- 
mon sense,"  responded  Walter,  without  perturbation.  "  You 
know  yourself  how  you  've  been  worried  to  death  almost, 
and  what  a  watching  these  slippery  customers  need.  It  is  not 
worth  the  trouble." 

"  Is  it  not?  Pray,  how  do  you  know  that?"  inquired  the 
old  man,  his  eyes  glittering  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"  I  do  n't  know,  of  course ;  but  you  always  say  you  are  a 
poor  man  ?"  replied  Walter,  as  he  put  down  the  figures  of  a 
sum  on  his  slate. 

"  But  you  do  n't  believe  it,  eh  ?  Perhaps  that 's  why 
you  Ve  stuck  to  me  like  a  leech  so  long,"  he  said,  with  his 
most  disagreeable  smile ;  but  Walter  never  answered.  They 
had  been  together  now  for  some  years,  and  there  was  a  curi- 
ous sort  of  understanding,  a  liking  even,  between  them.  And 
of  late  Walter  had  taken  several  opportunities  of  speaking  his 
mind  with  a  candor  which  really  pleased  his  strange  old 
master,  though  he  always  appeared  to  be  in  a  state  of  indig- 
nation. 

"  The  only  thing  I  am  anxious  about  is  the  girl,"  he  mut- 


AN  IMPENDING  CHANGE,  77 

tered,  more  to  himself  than  to  the  lad.  "  But  she  '11  find 
friends — more  of  them,  perhaps,  than  she  '11  want,  poor  thing ! 
poor  thing!'' 

These  words  gave  Walter  something  of  a  shock,  and  he 
looked  around  in  quick  wonderment.  But  the  return  of 
Gladys  just  then  prevented  him  asking  the  question  trem- 
bling on  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  X. 

IN    AYRSHIRE. 

HE  old  man  passed  a  quiet  night,  and  was  so 
much  better  in  the  morning  that  he  insisted  on 
getting  up. 

'•  What  kind  of  a  morning  is  it?"  was  the 
first  question  he  put  to  Gladys  when  she  entered  the  kitchen 
soon  after  six  o'clock. 

"A  lovely  morning,  uncle — MO  balmy  and  soft.  You  can't 
think  what  a  difference  from  yesterday,  and  there  's  a  bird 
singing  a  spring  song  in  my  tree.'' 

Often  yet  she  said  such  tilings.  The  gray  monotony  of 
her  life  had  not  quite  destroyed  the  poetic  vein,  nor  the  love 
of  all  things  beautiful. 

"  Warm,  is  it?     Have  you  been  out?" 
"  Not  yet ;  but  J  opened   my  window  and  put  my  head 
out,  and  the  air  was  quite  mild.     A  spring  morning,  Uncle 
Abel — the  first  we  have  had  this  year." 
':Any  sun?'' 

"Not  yet,  but  he  will  be  up  by  and  by.  How  have  you 
slept?" 

"Pretty  well.     I  am  better  this  morning;  quite  well,  in 
fact,  and  when  you  have  the  fire  on  I  '11  get  up." 
78 


IN  AYRSHIRE.  79 

"  Do  n't  be  rash,  uncle.  I  really  think  you  ought  to  stay 
in  bed  to-day." 

"No;  I  have  something  to  do.  How  soon  can  you  be 
ready — finished  with  your  work,  I  mean  ?  Have  you  any- 
thing you  can  leave  ready  for  Wat's  dinner?" 

"Why,  Uncle  Abel?"  asked  Gladys,  in  surprise. 

"Because  I  want  you  to  go  somewhere  with  me." 

"  You  are  not  going  out  of  this  house  one  foot  to- 
day," she  answered,  quickly.  "  It  would  be  very  danger- 
ous." 

The  old  man  smiled  slightly,  amused,  but  not  displeased 
by  the  decision  with  which  she  spoke.  • 

"  We  '11  see,  if  it  keeps  fine,  and  the  sun  comes  out.  I  'm 
going  to-day,  whatever  the  consequences,  and  you  with  me. 
It 's  been  put  off  too  long." 

Gladj's  asked  no  more  questions,  but  made  haste  to  build 
up  the  fire  and  get  him  a  cup  of  tea  before  he  rose. 

"  Put  on  your  warm  clothes,  and  make  ready  for  a  jour- 
ney in  the  train,  Gladys,''  he  said,  after  breakfast. 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  almost  wondering  if  his 
mind  did  not  wander  a  little. 

"Uncle  Abel,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  You  never  go 
journeys  in  trains.  It  will  not  be  safe  for  you  to  go  to-day 
with  such  a  cold,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  going,  my  dear,  as  I  said,  and  so  are  you,  what- 
ever the  consequences ;  so  get  ready  as  fast  as  you  like,  so 
that  we  may  have  the  best  of  the  da}*." 

"  Is  it  a  far  journey  ?" 

"  You'll  sec  when  you  get  there,"  he  replied,  rather 
shortly;  and  Gladys,  still  wondering  much,  made  haste  with 
her  work  and  began  to  dress  for  this  unexpected  outing. 
But  she  felt  uneasy,  and,  stealing  a  moment,  ran  up  to  Wal- 
ter, who  was  busy  in  the  warehouse,  and  reveling  in  the 
unaccustomed  luxury  of  a  blazing  fire. 

"How  nice  it  is,  and  what  a  difference  a  fire  can  make, 
to  be  sure  !"  she  said,  quickly.  "  I  say,  Walter,  such  a  thing  ! 


80  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Uncle  Abel  is  going  a  journey — a  railway  journey,  actually — 
and  I  am  going  with  him.  Has  he  said  anything  to  you? 
Have  you  any  idea  what  it  means?" 

"Not  I.  He's  a  queer  old  chap;  not  off  his  head,  I 
hope?" 

"  0  no ;  and  he  says  he  is  quite  well.  I  do  n't  know  what 
to  think.  Perhaps  I  shall  understand  it  when  I  come  back. 
You  will  find  your  dinner  in  the  oven,  Walter,  and  be  sure 
to  keep  up  a  good  fire  all  day  down-stairs,  in  case  uncle 
should  come  back  very  cold  and  tired.  I  am  afraid  he  will, 
but  it  is  no  use  saying  anything." 

Walter  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  soap-boxes,  and  looked 
into  the  girl's  face  with  a  curious  soberness. 

"  Something 's  going  to  happen ;  I  feel  it ;  something  I 
do  n't  like.  I  '.m  oppressed  with  an  awful,  queer  feeling.  I 
hope  they  're  not  worse  than  usual  at  home." 

"0  no;  you  are  letting  your  imagination  run  away 
with  you,"  she  said,  brightly.  "I  hope  you  will  have 
such  a  busy  day  you  won't  have  time  to  think  of  such 
things." 

And  bidding  him  good-morning,  she  ran  down  again  to 
her  uncle.  Then,  for  the  first  time  since  that  memorable  and 
dreary  journey  from  the  Fen  country,  these  two — the  old  man 
and  the  maiden — went  forth  together.  Both  thought  of  that 
iourney,  though  it  was  not  spoken  of.  She  could  not  fail  to 
see  that  there  was  a  certain  excitement  in  the  old  man ;  it 
betrayed  itself  in  his  restless  movements  and  in  the  gleam 
of  his  piercing  eye.  Gladys  no  longer  feared  the  glance  of 
his  eye,  nor  the  sound  of  his  voice.  A  quiet  confidence  had 
established  itself  between  them,  and  she  really  loved  him. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  dwell  beside  a  human  being,  not 
absolutely  repulsive,  without  pouring  some  of  the  riches  of 
her  affections  upon  him.  As  for  him,  Gladys  herself 
had  not  the  remotest  idea  how  he  regarded  her;  did  not 
dream  that  she  bad  awakened  in  his  withered  heart  a 
slow  and  all-absorbing  affection,  the  strength  of  which 


IN  AYRSHIRE.  81 

surprised  himself.  He  bade  her  stand  back  while  he  went 
to  the  booking-office  for  the  tickets,  and  they  were  in  the 
train  before  she  repeated  her  question  regarding  their 
destination. 

"L  think  it  would  only  be  fair,  Uncle  Abel,  if  you 
told  me  now  where  we  are  going,"  she  said,  playfully. 
For  answer  he  held  out  the  ticket  to  her,  and  in  amaze- 
ment she  read  "Mauchline"  on  it.  The  color  flushed 
all  over  her  face,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  eager,  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

"  O,  Uncle  Abel,  what  does  it  mean  ?  Why  are  you  going 
thereto-day?  1  can  not  understand  it." 

"  I  have  my  reasons,  Gladys.  You  will  know  them,  per- 
haps, sooner  than  you  think." 

"Is  it  a  long  journey,  uncle?  I  am  so  afraid  for  you. 
Let  me  shut  the  window  up  quite.  And  are  we  really,  really 
going  into  Ayrshire  at  last?" 

She  was  as  full  of  excitement  as  a  child.  She  sat  close 
to  the  window,  and,  when  the  train  had  left  the  city 
behind,  looked  out  with  eagerest  interest  on  the  wintry 
landscape. 

"  O,  Uncle  Abel,  it  is  so  beautiful  to  see  it,  the  wide  coun- 
try ;  and  the  sky  above  is  so  clear  and  lovely.  0,  there  is  room 
to  breathe !" 

"  I  am  sure  it  looks  wintry  and  bleak  enough,"  the  old 
man  answered,  with  a  grunt.  "  I  do  n't  see  much  beauty  in 
it  myself." 

"  How  strange !  To  me  it  is  wholly  beautiful.  Is  this 
Ayrshire  yet?  Tell  me  when  we  come  to  Ayrshire." 

A  slow  smile  was  on  the  old  man's  face  as  he  looked  and 
listened.  He  enjoyed  her  young  enthusiasm,  but  it  seemed 
to  awaken  in  him  some  sadder  thought;  for  once  he  sighed 
heavily,  and  drew  himself  together  as  if  he  felt  cold,  or  some 
bitter  memory  smote  him. 

In  little  more  than  an  hour  the  train  drew  up  at  the  quiet 
country  station,  and  Gladys  was  told  they  had  reached  their 


82  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

journey's  end.  It  was  a  lovely  spring  morning;  the  sun 
shone  out  cheerfully  from  a  mild,  bright  sky ;  the  air  was 
laden  with  the  awakening  odors  of  spring,  and  the  spirit  of 
life  seemed  to  be  everywhere. 

"  Now,  my  girl,  we  have  a  great  deal  to  do  to-day,"  said 
the  old  man,  when  they  had  crossed  the  foot-bridge.  "  What 
do  you  want  most  to  see  here?" 

"  Mossgiel  and  Ballochmyle,  and  the  house  where  you  lived 
in  Mauchline." 

"  "We  '11  go  to  that  first ;  it 's  not  a  great  sight,  I  warn 
you — only  a  whitewashed,  thatched  cottage  in  a  by-street. 
When  we  've  seen  that,  we  '11  take  a  trap  and  drive  to  the 
other  places." 

"  But  that  will  cost  a  great  deal,"  said  Gladys,  doubtfully, 
recalled  for  the  moment  to  the  small  economies  it  was  her 
daily  lot  to  practice. 

"Perhaps;  but  we  '11  manage  it,  I  dare  say.  It  is  impos- 
sible for  us  to  walk,  so  there  's  no  use  saying  another  word. 
Give  me  your  arm." 

Gladys  was  ready  in  a  moment.  Never  since  the  old  Fen 
days  had  she  felt  so  happy,  because  the  green  earth  was  be- 
neath her  feet,  the  trees  waving  above  her,  the  song  of 
birds  in  her  ears,  instead  of  the  roar  of  city  streets. 
They  did  not  talk  as  they  walked,  until  they  turned  into  the 
quaint,  wide  street  of  the  old-fashioned  village ;  then  it  was 
as  if  the  cloak  of  his 'reserve  fell  from  Abel  Graham,  and  he 
became  garrulous  as  a  boy  over  these  old  landmarks  which 
he  had  never  forgotten.  He  led  Gladys  by  way  of  Poosie 
Nancie's  tavern,  showed  her  its  classic  interior,  and  then, 
turning  into  a  little,  narrow  lane,  pointed  out  the  cottage 
where  he  and  her  father  had  been  boys  together. 

It  was  the  girl's  turn  to  be  silent.  She  was  trying  to 
picture  the  dear  father  a  boy  at  his  mother's  knee,  or  run- 
ning in  and  out  that  low  doorway,  or  helping  to  swell  the 
boyish  din  in  the  narrow  street.  And  when  they  turned  to 
go,  her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 


IN  AYRSHIRE.  83 

11 1  would  rather  have  come  here  to-day,  Uncle  Abel,  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  whole  wide  world.  But  why  did  you 
wish  to  come?  Did  you  take  a  sudden  longing  to  see  the  old 
place?" 

"  JSTo,  that  was  not  my  object  at  all.  You  will  know 
what  it  was  some  da}T.  Now  we  '11  go  to  the  inn  and  get 
something  to  eat,  while  they  get  our  machine  ready.  See, 
there  's  the  old  kirk  ;  there  's  a  lot  of  famous  folk  buried  in 
that  kirk-yard.  We  'd  better  go  in,  and  I  '11  show  you  where 
I  want  to  be  laid." 

They  got  the  key  of  the  church-yard  gates,  and,  stepping 
across  the  somewhat  untidily  kept  graves,  stood  before  an 
uneven  mound,  surrounded  by  a  very  old,  moss-grown  head- 
stone. 

"  There  's  a  name  on  it,  child.  You  can't  read  it ;  but 
it  doesn't  matter,"  he  said;  but  Gladys  bending  down 
brushed  the  tall  grass  from  the  stone,  and  read  the  name, 
"John  Bourhill  Graham,  of  Bourhill,  and  his  spouse,  Nancy 
Millar." 

"Whose  names  are  these,  uncle  —  your  father's  and 
mother's  ?" 

"0  no;  they  were  not  Grahams  of  Bourhill,"  he  an- 
swered, dryly.  "  That's  generations  back." 

"But  the  same  family?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  Yes.  I  see  you  would  like  to  explore 
this  place;  but  we  can't.  It's  not  the  most  cheerful  occupa- 
tion, anyhow.  Come  on  ;  let  us  go  to  the  inn." 

The  lavish  manner  in  which  her  uncle  spent  his 
money  that  day  amazed  Gladys,  but  she  made  no  remark. 
Immediately  after  their  hot  and  abundant  dinner  at  the 
inn,  they  drove  to  the  places  Burns  has  immortalized, 
arid  which  Gladys  had  so  long  yearned  to  see.  Balloch- 
myle,  in  lovely  spring  dress,  so  far  exceeded  her  expec- 
tation that  she  had  no  words  wherein  to  express  her  deep 
enjoyment. 

i'Do  not  let  us  hurry  away,  uncle,"  she  pleaded,  as  the) 


84  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

wandered  through  the  wooded  glades,  "  unless  you  are  very 
tired.  It  is  so  warm  and  pleasant,  and  it  can  not  be  very 
late." 

"  It,  is  not  late,  half-past  two  only ;  but  I  want  you  to 
see  Eourhill,  where  our  forebears  lived  when  we  had  them 
\vorth  mentioning,"  he  said  grimly.  "  Did  your  father  never 
speak  to  you  about  Bourhill?" 

"No,  never,  Uncle  Abel.  I  am  quite  sure  I  never  heard 
the  name  until  I  read  it  to-day  in  the  church-yard." 

"I  will  tell  you  why.  He  had  a  dream — a  foolish  one  it 
proved — a  dream  that  he  might  one  day  restore  the  name 
Graham  of  Bourhill  again.  He  hoped  to  make  a  fortune  by 
his  pictures;  but  it  was  a  vain  delusion." 

A  shadow  clouded  the  bright  face  of  Gladys  as  she  list 
ened  to  these  words. 

"This  place,   Bourhill,  is  it    an    estate,    or  what?"    she 
asked. 

"  Not  now.  A  hundred  years  ago  it  had  some  farms,  and 
was  a  fair  enough  patrimony;  but  it 's  all  squandered  long 
syne." 

"How?" 

"  0,  drink  and  gambling,  and  such  like.  My  grandfather, 
David  Graham,  kent  the  taste  of  Poosie  Nancie's  whisky  too 
well  to  look  after  his  ain,  and  it  slipped  through  his  fingers 
like  a  knotless  thread." 

He  had  become  even  more  garrulous,  and  unearthed  from 
the  store-house  of  his  memory  a  wealth  of  reminiscences 
of  those  old  times,  mingled  with  many  bits  of  personal  his- 
tory, which  Gladys  listened  to  with  breathless  interest.  She 
had  never  seen  him  so  awakened,  so  full  of  life  and  vigor ; 
she  could  only  look  at  him  in  amazement.  They  drove  leis- 
urely through  the  pleasant  spring  sunshine  over  the  wide, 
beautiful  country,  past  fields  where  the  wheat  was  green  and 
strong,  and  others  where  sowing  was  progressing  merrily — 
sights  and  sounds  dear  to  Gladys,  who  had  no  part  nor  lot 
in  cities. 


IN  A  YRSHJRE.  85 

"  O,  Uncle  Abel,  Ayrshire  is  lovely.  Look  at  these  low 
green  hills  in  the  distance,  and  the  woods  everywhere.  I  do 
not  wonder  that  Burns  could  write  poetry  here.  There  is 
poetry  everywhere." 

"Ay,  to  your  e}Tes,  because  you  are  young  and  know  no 
better.  Look !  away  over  yonder,  as  far  as  your  eyes  can 
see  is  the  sea !  If  it  was  a  little  clearer  you  would  see  the 
ships  in  Troon  Harbor ;  and  up  there  lies  Tarbolton  ;  away 
down  there,  the  way  we  have  come,  Kilmarnock ;  and  do 
you  see  that  little  wooded  hill  about  two  miles  ahead  to  the 
left?  Among  those  trees  lies  Bourhill." 

"  It  is  a  long  drive  to  it,  Uncle  Abel.  I  hope  it  has  not 
tired  you  very  much." 

"  No,  no ;  I  'm  all  right.  We  '11  drive  up  the  avenue  to 
the  house  and  back.  I  want  you  to  see  it." 

"  Does  nobody  live  in  it?" 

"Not  just  now." 

Another  fifteen  minutes  brought  them  to  an  unpre- 
tending iron  gateway  which  gave  entrance  to  an  avenue 
of  fine  old  trees.  The  gate  stood  open,  and  though  a 
woman  ran  out  from  the  lodge,  when  the  trap  passed  she 
made  no  demur. 

The  avenue  was  nearly  half  a  mile  in  length,  and  ended 
in  a  sharp  curve,  which  brought  them  quite  suddenly  before 
the  house,  a  plain,  square,  substantial  lamily  dwelling,  with 
a  pillared  doorway,  and  long,  wide  windows,  about  which 
crept  ivy  of  a  century's  growth.  It  was  all  shut  up,  and  the 
gravel  sweep  before  the  door  was  overgrown  with  moss  and 
weeds ;  the  grass  on  the  lawns,  which  stretched  away  through 
the  shrubberies,  was  long  and  rank.  Yet  there  was  a  homely 
look  about  it,  too,  as  if  a  slight  touch  could  convert  it  into 
a  happy  home. 

"  This  is  Bourhill,  my  girl ;  and  whatever  ambitions 
your  father  may  have  had  in  later  years,  it  was  once  his 
one  desire  to  buy  it  back  to  the  Grahams.  Do  you  like 
the  place?" 


86  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Yes,  uncle ;  but  it  is  very  desolate ;  it  makes  me 
sad." 

'•'It  will  not  be  long  so,1'  he  said,  and  drawing  himself 
together  with  a  quick  shiver,  he  bade  the  driver  turn  the 
horses'  heads.  But  before  the  house  vanished  quite  from 
view  he  cast  his  gaze  back  upon  it,  and  in  his  eye  there  was 
a  strange,  even  a  yearning  glance.  "  It  will  not  be  long  so," 
he  repeated  under  his  breath.  "  Not  long,  and  it  will  be  a 
great  atonement." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


DA.YS. 

X  the  night  Gladys  was  awakened  by  her  uncle's 
voice  sharply  calling  her  name ;  and  when  she 
hastened  to  him  she  found  him  in  great  pain, 
and  breathing  with  the  utmost  difficulty.  Her 
presence  of  mind  did  not  desert  her.  She  had 
often  seen  her  father  in  a  similar  state,  and  knew  ex- 
actly what  to  do.  In  a  few  minutes  she  had  a  blazing  fire, 
and  the  kettle  on  ;  then  she  ran  to  awaken  Walter,  so  that  he 
might  go  for  the  doctor.  The  simple  remedies  experience 
had  taught  the  girl,  considerably  eased  the  old  man,  and 
when  the  doctor  came  he  found  him  breathing  more  freely. 
Hut  his  face  was  quite  grave  after  his  examination  was  made. 
"I  suppose  my  hour's  come,"  said  Abel  Graham,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  way.  "  I  do  n't  think  much  of  your  frater- 
nity. I  Ve  never  had  many  dealings  with  you  ;  but  I  sup- 
pose you  can  tell  a  man  what  he  generally  knows  himself— 
that  he  '11  soon  be  in  grips  with  death." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  smile.  He  was  a 
young  man  fighting  his  way  up  against  fierce  competition — 
an  honest,  straightforMTard  fellow,  who  knew  and  loved  his 
work. 

87 


88  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"You  don't  think  highly  of  us,  Mr.  Graham;  but  I 
dare  say  we  have  our  uses.  This  young  lady  appears  to  be 
an  accomplished  nurse.  She  has  done  the  very  best  possible 
under  the  circumstances." 

He  turned  to  Gladys,  not  seeking  to  hide  his  surprise  at 
finding  such  a  fair  young  creature  amid  such  surroundings. 
Walter  Hepburn,  standing  in  the  background,  experienced  a 
strange  sensation  when  he  saw  that  look.  Though  he  knew 
it  not,  it  was  his  first  jealous  pang. 

"  I  had  to  nurse  my  father  often  in  such  attacks,"  Gladys 
answered,  with  her  quiet,  dignified  calm.  "  If  there  is  any- 
thing more  I  can  do,  pray  tell  me,  and  I  will  follow  your  in- 
structions faithfully." 

"  There  is  not  so  much  we  can  do  in  such  a  case.  I  never 
heard  anything  so  foolhardy  as  to  go  off,  as  you  say  he  did 
yesterday,  driving  through  the  open  country  for  hours  on  a 
March  day.  I  do  n't  think  a  man  who  takes  such  liberties  with 
himself  can  expect  to  escape  the  penalty,  Mr.  Graham." 

"  Well,  well,  it  does  n't  matter.  If  my  hour  's  come,  it 's 
come,  I  suppose,  and  that 's  the  end  of  it,"  he  retorted,  irrita- 
bly. "  How  long  will  I  last  ?" 

"Years,  perhaps,  with  care — after  this  attack  is  con- 
quered," replied  the  doctor ;  and  the  old  man  answered  with 
a  grim,  sardonic  smile : 

"  We  '11  see  whether  you  or  I  am  right,"  he  replied. 
"  You  need  n't  stay  any  longer  just  now." 

Gladys  took  the  candle,  and  herself  showed  the  doctor  to 
the  outer  door. 

"  Will  he  really  recover,  do  you  think  ?"  she  asked,  when 
they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  He  may ;  but  only  with  care.  The  lungs  are  much  con- 
gested, and  his  reserve  of  strength  is  small.  What  relation  is 
he  to  you,  may  I  ask  ?  Your  grandfather?" 

"No;  my  uncle." 

"And  do  you  live  here  always  ?" 

"Yes,  this  is  my  home,"  Gladys  answered;  and  she  could 


DARKENING  DAYS.  89 

scarcely  forbear  a  smile  at  the  expression  on  the  young 
doctor's  face. 

"Indeed!  and  you  are  contented?  You  seem  so,"  he 
said,  lingering  at  the  door  a  moment  longer  than  he  need 
have  done. 

"  0  yes,  I  have  a  great  deal  to  be  thankful  for,"  she 
answered.  "You  will  come  again  to-morrow  early,  will 
you  not?" 

"Certainly.  Good  morning.  Take  care  of  yourself. 
You  do  not  look  as  if  your  reserve  of  strength  were  very 
great  either." 

"  O,  I  am  very  strong,  I  assure  you,"  Gladys  answered, 
with  a  smile;  and  as  she  looked  into  his  open,  honest  face 
she  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  pleasant  face  it  was. 

Then  she  went  back  to  keep  her  vigil  by  the  sick-bed, 
and  to  exercise  her  woman's  prerogative  to  ease  and  minister 
to  pain.  There  was  little  any  one  could  do  now,  however, 
to  help  Abel  Graham,  the  issue  of  his  case  being  in  the  hand 
of  God.  In  obedience  to  the  request  of  Gladys,  Walter 
went  back  to  bed,  and  she  sat  on  by  the  fire,  thoroughly 
awake,  and  watchful  to  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  her  uncle. 
He  did  not  talk  much,  but  he  appeared  to  watch  Gladys,  and 
to  be  full  of  thoughts  concerning  her. 

"  Po  you  remember  that  night  I  came,  after  your  father 
died?"  he  asked  once. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "I  remember  it 
well." 

"You  felt  bitter  and  hard  against  me,  did  you  not?" 

"  If  I  did,  Uncle  Abel,  it  has  long  passed,"  she  answered. 
'•  There  is  no  good  to  be  got  recalling  what  is  past." 

"Perhaps  not;  but,  my  girl,  when  a  man  comes  to  his 
dying  bed,  it  is  the  past  he  harks  back  on,  trying  to  get 
some  comfort  out  of  it  for  the  future  he  dreads,  and  failing 
always." 

"  It  is  not  your  dying  bed,  Uncle  Abel,  I  hope ;  you  are 
not  so  old  yet,"  she  said,  cheerfully. 


90  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  old  in  yeai'S — not  sixty — but  old  enough  to 
regret  my  youth,"  he  said.  "Are  you  still  of  the  same  mind 
about  the  spending  of  money,  if  you  should  ever  have  it  to 
spend?" 

"  Yes;  but  it  is  so  unlikely,  Uncle  Abel,  that  I  shall  ever 
have  any  money  to  spend.  It  is  quite  easy  saying  what  we 
can  do  in  imaginary  circumstances.  Reality  is  always  dif- 
ferent, and  more  difficult  to  deal  with." 

"  You  are  very  wise  for  your  years.  How  many  are 
they?" 

"  Seventeen  and  three  months." 

"Ay,  well,  you  look  your  age  and  more.  You  'd  pass  for 
twenty ;  but  no  wonder ;  and — " 

"I  wish  you  would  not  talk  so  much,  uncle;  it  will  ex- 
cite and  exhaust  you,"  she  said,  in  gentle  remonstrance. 

"  1  must  talk,  if  my  time  is  short.  Suppose  I  'm  taken, 
what  will  you  do  with  yourself,  eh?" 

"  The  way  will  open  up  for  me,  I  do  not  doubt ;  there 
must  be  a  corner  for  me  somewhere,"  she  said,  bravely. 
Nevertheless,  her  young  cheek  blanched,  and  she  shivered 
slightly  as  she  glanced  round  the  place — poor  enough,  per- 
haps, but  which  at  least  afforded  her  a  peaceful  and  comfort- 
able home.  These  signs  were  not  unnoticed  by  the  dying 
man,  and  a  faint,  slow,  melancholy  smile  gathered  about  his 
haggard  mouth. 

"  You  believe,  I  suppose,  that  the  Lord  will  provide  for 
you?"  he  said,  grimly. 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Does  He  never  fail,  eh  ?" 

"  Never.  He  does  not  always  provide  just  as  we  expect 
or  desire,  but  provision  is  made  all  the  same,"  answered  the 
girl,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  a  steadfast  light. 

"  It 's  a  very  comfortable  doctrine,  but  not  practicable, 
nor,  to  my  thinking,  honest.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  is 
right  to  sit  down  with  folded  hands  waiting  for  the  Lord  to 
provide,  and  living  off  other  people  at  the  same  time?" 


DARKENING  DAYS.  91 

Gladys  smiled. 

"  No,  that  is  not  right,  but  wrong,  very  wrong,  and  pun- 
ishment always  follows.  Heaven  helps  those  who  help  them- 
selves; do  n't  you  remember  that?" 

"Ay,  well,  I  do  n't  understand  your  theology,  I  confess. 
But  we  may  as  well  think  it  out.  What  do  you  suppose  will 
become  of  me  after  I  shuffle  off,  eh  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  know,  uncle.  You  best  know  what  your  own 
hope  is,"  she  replied. 

"  I  have  no  hope,  and  I  do  n't  see  myself  how  anybody 
can  presume  to  have  any.  It 's  all  conjecture  about  a  future 
life.  How  does  anybody  know  ?  Nobody  has  ever  come  back 
to  tell  the  tale." 

"  No ;  but  we  know  all  the  same  that  there  are  many 
mansions  in  heaven,  and  that  God  has  prepared  them  for  his 
children." 

"  You  would  not  call  me  one  of  them,  I  guess,"  said  the 
old  man,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm;  yet  there  was  something 
behind — a  great  wistfulness,  a  consuming  anxiety,  which  be- 
trayed itself  in  his  very  eye,  as  he  awaited  her  reply.  It  was 
a  curious  moment — a  curious  scene :  The  old,  toil-worn, 
world-weary  man,  who  had  spent  his  days  in  the  most  sordid 
pursuit  of  gold — gold  for  which  he  would  at  one  time  almost 
have  sold  his  soul — hanging  on  the  words  of  a  young,  un- 
tried maiden,  whose  purity  enabled  her  to  touch  the  very 
gates  of  heaven.  It  was  a  sight  to  make  the  philosopher 
ponder  anew  on  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  the  strange  anom- 
alies human  nature  presents. 

She  turned  her  sweet  face  to  him,  and  there  was  a  mix- 
ture of  pathos  and  brightness  in  her  glance. 

"Why  not,  uncle?  I  may  not  judge.  It  is  God  who 
knows  the  heart." 

"  Ay,  maybe.  But  what  would  you  think  yourself?  You 
have  shrewd  enough  eyes,  though  you  are  so  quiet." 

"  But  I  can  not  know  this,  uncle ;  only  if  you  believe 
that  Christ  died  for  you,  you  are  one  of  God's  children, 


92  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

though  " —  she  added,  with  a  slight  hesitation — "  you  may 
not  have  served  him  very  well." 

"Then  you  think  I  have  not  served  him,  eh?"  he  re- 
peated, with  strange  persistence. 

"  Perhaps  you  might  have  done  more,  uncle.  If  you  get 
better  you  will  do  more  for  others,  I  feel  sure,"  she  said. 
"  But  now  you  must  be  still  and  keep  quiet.  I  shall  not  talk 
another  word  to  you — positively,  not  a  word." 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  drily,  and  turning  on  his  pillow  closed  his 
eyes ;  not  to  sleep — 0  no — brain  and  heart  were  too  full  of 
conflicting  and  disturbing  thought. 

In  the  dull  hours  of  the  early  morning,  Gladys  dozed  a 
little  in  her  chair,  imagining  the  sick  man  slept.  When  the 
light  grew  broader,  she  roused  herself  and  began  to  move 
about  with  swift  but  noiseless  steps,  fearing  to  awake  him. 
But  he  did  not  sleep.  Lying  there,  with  his  face  turned  to 
the  wall,  Abel  Graham  held  counsel  with  himself,  reviewing 
his  life,  which  lay  before  him  like  a  tale  that  is  told.  None 
knew  better  than  he  what  a  poor,  mean,  sordid,  selfish  life  it 
had  been,  how  little  it  had  contributed  to  the  good  or  the 
happiness  of  others ;  and  these  memories  tortured  him  now 
with  the  stings  of  the  bitterest  regret.  It  was  not  known 
to  any  save  himself  and  his  Maker  what  agony  his  awak- 
ened soul  passed  through  in  the  still  hours  of  that  spring 
day.  Seeing  him  lie  apparently  in  such  restfulness,  the  two 
young  creatures  spoke  to  each  other  at  their  breakfast  only 
in  whispers;  and  when  Walter  went  up  to  the  warehouse, 
Gladys  continued  to  perform  her  slight  tasks  as  gently  and 
noiselessly  as  possible.  But  sometimes,  when  she  looked  at 
the  face  on  the  pillow,  with  its  closed  eyes  and  pinched,  wan 
features,  she  wished  the  doctor  would  come  again.  About 
half-past  nine  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  Gladys  ran  out 
almost  joyfully,  expecting  to  see  the  young  physician  with 
the  honest  face  and  the  pleasant  eyes,  but  a  very  different 
looking  personage  was  presented  to  Ler  view  when  she 
opened  the  door;  a  man  in  shabby  "workman's  garb,  dirty, 


DARKENING  DAYS.  93 

greasy,  and  untidy ;  a  man  with  a  degraded  type  of  counte- 
nance, a  heavy,  coarse  mouth,  and  small  eyes  looking  out 
suspiciously  from  heavy  brows.  She  shrank  away  a  little, 
and  almost  unconsciously  began  to  close  the  door,  even 
while  she  civilly  inquired  his  business. 

"  Is  Wat  in?  I  want  to  see  my  son  Walter  Hepburn," 
he  said,  and  when  he  opened  his  mouth,  Gladys  felt  the  smell 
of  drink,  and  it  filled  her  with  both  mental  and  physical  re- 
pulsion. So  this  was  Walter's  father.  Poor  Walter!  A 
vast  compassion,  greater  than  any  misery  she  had  before  ex- 
perienced, filled  the  girl's  gentle  soul. 

"Yes;  he  is  in,  up-stairs  in  the  warehouse.  Will  you 
come  in,  please?"  she  asked;  but  before  the  invitation  could 
be  accepted,  Wat  came  bounding  down  the  stairs,  having 
heard  and  recognized  the  voice,  and  there  was  no  welcoming 
light  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  on  his  father's  face. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked  abruptly,  and 
Gladys,  slipping  back  hastily,  left  them  alone. 

And  after  she  had  returned  to  the  kitchen  she  heard  the 
hum  of  their  voices  in  earnest  talk  for  quite  five  minutes. 
Then  the  door  was  closed,  and  she  heard  Walter  returning 
to  his  work.  It  appeared  to  her  as  if  his  step  sounded  very 
heavy  and  reluctant  as  it  ascended  the  stair.  Presently  her 
uncle  roused  himself  up,  and  asked  for  something  to  eat  or 
drink.  "Are  you  feeling  better?"  she  asked,  as  she  shook 
up  his  pillows  and  did  other  little  things  to  make  him  com- 
fortable. 

"  No ;  there  's  a  load  lying  here,"  he  answered,  touching 
his  chest,  "  which  presses  down  to  the  grave.  If  they  can't 
do  something  to  remove  that,  I  'm  a  dead  man.  No  word  of 
that  young  upstart  doctor  yet?" 

"  Not  yet.     Shall  I  send  for  him,  uncle?" 

"  No,  no ;  he  '11  come  sure  enough,  and  fast  enough,  oftener 
than  he  's  wanted,"  he  answered.  "  Who  was  that  at  the 
door?" 

"  Walter's  father." 


94  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"Eh?  Walter's  father?  What  did  he  want?  Is  he 
smelling  round,  too,  to  see  if  he  can  get  anything?"  he  said, 
querulously.  "When  you  Ve  given  me  that  tea,  I  wish  you 
to  take  my  keys  from  my  coat-pocket  and  go  up  to  the  safe. 
When  you  Ve  opened  it,  you  '11  find  an  old  pocket-book,  tied 
with  a  red  string.  I  want  you  to  bring  it  down  to  me." 

"  Very  well." 

Gladys  did  exactly  as  she  was  bid,  and,  leaving  the  old 
man  at  his  slender  breakfast,  ran  up  to  the  warehouse.  To 
her  surprise  she  found  Walter,  usually  so  active  and  so  ener- 
getic, sitting  on  the  office-stool,  with  his  arms  folded  and  his 
face  wearing  a  look  of  deepest  gloom.  Some  new  trouble 
had  come  to  him ;  that  was  apparent  to  her  at  once. 

"  Why,  Walter,  how  troubled  you  look !  No  bad  news 
from  home,  I  hope." 

"  Bad  enough,"  he  answered,  in  a  kind  of  savage  under- 
tone. "  I  knew  something  was  going  to  happen.  Have  n't  I 
been  saying  it  for  days  ?" 

"But  what  has  happened?    Nothing  very  bad  I  hope?" 

"So  bad  that  it  could  n't  be  worse,"  he  said.  "Liz  has 
run  away." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SETTINQ  His  HOUSE  IN  ORDER. 

LADYS  opened  her  eyes. 

".Runaway!     How?     Where?     I  don't  un- 
derstand." 

"All  the  better  if  you  don't,"  he  answered, 
harshly. 

'•  She  !s  run  away,  anyhow,  and  it 's  their  blame.  Then 
they  come  to  me,  after  the  mischiefs  done,  thinking  I  can 
make  it  right.  I  'm  not  going  to  stir  a  foot  in  the  matter. 
They  can  all  go  to  Land's  End  for  me." 

He.  spoke  bitterly — more  bitterly  than  Gladys  had  ever 
heard  him  speak  before.  She  stood  there,  with  the  keys  on 
her  forefinger,  the  picture  of  perplexity  and  concern.  She 
did  not  understand  the  situation,  and  was  filled  with  curi- 
osity to  know  where  Liz  had  run  to. 

"Have  they  quarreled,  or  what?"  she  asked. 
"  No,  I  do  n't  suppose  there  's  been  any  more  than  the 
usual  amount  of  scrimmaging,"  he  said,  with  a  hard  smile. 
';  I  do  n't  blame  Liz :  she  's  only  what  they  've  made  her. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is."  he  said,  suddenly  clenching  his 
right  hand,  his  young  face  set  with  the  bitterness  of  his 
grief  and  shame,  "if  there  's  no  punishment  for  those  that 

95 


96  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

bring  children  into  the  world  and  then  let  them  go  to  ruin, 
there  's  no  justice  in  heaven,  and  I  do  n't  believe  in  it." 

Gladys  shrank  back,  paling  slightly  under  this  torrent  of 
passionate  words.  Never  had  she  seen  Walter  so  bitterly, 
so  fearfully  moved.  He  got  up  from  his  stool,  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  narrow  space  between  the  boxes  in  a  very 
storm  of  indignation.  And  it  seemed  to  Gladys  that  a  few 
minutes  had  changed  him  from  a  boy  into  a  man. 

11  Dear  Walter,"  she  said,  gently,  "  try  to  be  brave.  Per- 
haps it  will  not  be  so  bad  as  you  think." 

"It's  so  bad  for  Liz,  poor  thing,  that  it  won't  be  any 
worse.  She  's  lost,  and  she  was  the  only  one  of  them  I  cared 
for.  If  she  'd  had  a  chance,  she  'd  have  been  a  splendid 
woman.  She  has  a  good  heart,  only  she  never  had  anybody 
to  guide  her." 

Gladys  could  not  speak.  She  had  only  the  vaguest  idea 
what  he  meant;  but  she  knew  that  something  terrible  had 
happened  to  Liz.  A  curious  reticence  seemed  to  bind  her 
tongue.  She  could  not  ask  a  single  question  that  might  have 
soothed  Walter's  wounded  spirit. 

"Just  when  a  fellow  was  beginning  to  get  on!"  cried 
Walter,  rebelliously,  "  this  has  to  happen  to  throw  him  back. 
It  was  a  fearful  mistake  trying  to  better  myself.  I  wish  I 
had  sunk  down  into  the  mud  with  the  rest.  If  I  do  it  yet, 
it  will  be  the  best  thing  for  me." 

Then  Gladys  intervened.  Though  she  did  not  quite  com- 
prehend the  nature  of  this  new  trouble  which  appeared  so 
powerfully  to  move  him,  she  could  not  listen  to  such  words 
without  remonstrance. 

"  It  is  not  right  to  speak  so,  Walter,  and  I  will  not  listen 
to  it.  Whatever  others  may  do,  though  it  may  grieve  and 
cut  you  to  the  heart,  it  can  not  take  away  your  honor  or  in- 
tegrity; always  remember  that." 

"Yes,  it  can,"  he  said,  impetuously.  "That  kind  of  dis- 
grace hangs  on  to  a  man  all  his  days.  He  has  to  bear  the 
sins  of  others.  That  is  where  the  injustice  comes  in.  The 


SETTING  HIS  HOUSE  IN  ORDER.  97 

innocent  must  suffer  for  and  with  the  guilty  always.  There 
is  no  escape." 

Gladys  sighed,  arid  her  face  became  pale  and  weary-look- 
ing. Never  had  life  appeared  so  hard,  so  full  of  pain  and  care. 
Looking  at  the  face  of  Walter,  which  she  had  always  thought 
so  noble  and  so  good — the  index  to  a  soul  striving,  though 
sometimes  but  feebly,  yet  striving  always  after  what  was 
highest  and  best;  looking  at  his  face  then,  and  seeing  it  so 
shadowed  by  the  bitterness  of  his  lot — her  own  simple  faith 
for  the  moment  seemed  to  fail. 

"You  saw  him,  then,  this  morning;  and  I  hope  you  ad- 
mired him,"  said  Walter,  with  harsh  scorn.  "  Reeking  with 
drink,  speaking  thick  through  it  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. What  chance  has  a  fellow  with  a  father  like  that? 
Ten  to  one  I  go  over  to  drink  myself  one  of  these  days. 
Well,  I  might  do  worse.  It  drowns  care,  they  say ;  and  i 
know  it  destroys  feelings,  which,  from  my  experience,  seem 
only  given  for  our  torture." 

Gladys  gave  a  sob,  and  turned  aside  to  the  safe.  That 
sound  recalled  Walter  to  himself,  and  in  a  moment  his  mood 
changed.  His  eyes  melted  into  tenderness  as  he  looked  upon 
the  pale,  slight  girl  whom  his  words  in  some  sad  way  had 
wounded. 

"Forgive  me.  I  don't  know  what  1  am  saying;  but  I 
had  no  right  to  vex  you,  the  only  angel  I  know  in  this  whole 
city  of  Glasgow." 

His  extravagant  speech  provoked  a  smile  on  her  face,  and 
she  turned  her  head  from  where  she  knelt  before  the  safe, 
and  lifted  her  large,  earnest  eyes  to  his. 

"  How  you  talk !  You  must  learn  to  control  yourself  a 
little  more.  It  is  self-control  that  makes  a  man,"  she  said, 
quietly.  "I  do  not  know  how  to  comfort  you,  Walter,  in 
this  trouble,  which  seems  jao  much  heavier  than  even  I  think. 
But  in  the  end  it  will  be  for  good.  Everything  is,  you  know, 
to  them  that  love  God." 

She  was  so  familiar  with  Scripture,  and  depended  so  en- 

7 


98  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

tirely  on  it  for  comfort  apd  strength,  that  her  words  carried 
conviction  with  them.  They  fell  on  the  riven  heart  of  Wal- 
ter like  balm,  and  restored  a  measure  of  peace  to  it.  Before 
he  could  make  any  answer,  a  quick  knocking,  and  the  up- 
lifting of  the  feeble  voice  from  below,  indicated  that  the  old 
man  was  impatient  of  the  girl's  delay.  She  hastily  lifted  the 
pocket-book,  relocked  the  safe  door,  and,  with  a  nod  to  Wal- 
ter, ran  down -stairs. 

"What  kept  you  so  long  chattering  up -stairs?"  queried 
the  old  man,  with  all  the  peevishness  of  a  sick  person. 
"You  do  n't  care  a  penny-piece,  either  of  you,  though  I  died 
this  very  moment." 

"  0,  Uncle  Abel,  hold  your  tongue ;  you  know  that  is  not 
true,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  Walter  is  in  great  trouble  this 
morning.  Something  has  happened  to  his  sister." 

"Ay,  what  is  it,  eh  ?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly;  but  she  has  left  home." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  'm  not  surprised ;  she  was  a  bold  hussy,  and 
had  no  respect  for  anything  in  this  world.  And  is  Walter 
taking  on  badly?" 

"Very  badly.     I  never  saw  him  so  distressed." 

"Well,  it's  hard  on  a  chap  trying  to  do  well.  It's  a 
hopeless  case  trying  to  fly  out  of  an  ill  nest." 

"  Uncle  Abel,  you  must  not  say  that.  Nothing  is  hope- 
less if  only  we  are  on  the  right  side,"  said  Gladys,  stoutly, 
though  inwardly  her  heart  re-echoed  sadly  that  dark  creed. 

"  Well,  well,  you  're  young,  and  nothing  seems  impossi- 
ble," he  said,  good-naturedly.  "  Here,  take  off  this  string. 
My  fingers  are  as  feckless  as  a  threid." 

Gladys  opened  the  pocket-book,  which  was  stuffed  full 
of  old  papers.  The  old  man  fingered  them  lovingly  and 
with  careful  touch,  until  he  found  the  one  he  sought.  It  was 
a  somewhat  long  document,  written  on  blue,  official-looking 
paper,  and  attested  by  several  seals.  »He  read  it  from  begin- 
ning to  end  with  close  attention,  and  gave  a  grunt  of  satis- 
faction when  he  laid  it  down. 


SETTING  HIS  HOUSE  IN  ORDER.  99 

"  Is  Wat  busy?"  he  asked  then. 

"  He  has  not  much  heart  for  his  work  to-day,  uncle." 

"  Cry  him  down  ;  I  've  a  message  for  him  ;  or.  stop,  you  'd 
better  go  yourself,  in  case  anybody  comes  to  the  warehouse. 
Do  you  know  St.  Vincent  Street?" 

"  Yes,  uncle." 

"  You  do  n't  know  Fordyce  &  Fordyce,  the  lawyers'  office, 
'lo  you  ?" 

<:  No  ;  but  I  can  find  it." 

"  Very  well ;  go  just  now  and  ask  for  old  Mr.  Fordyce. 
If  he  is  n't  in.  just  come  back." 

"And  what  am  I  to  say  to  him?'' 

"Tell  him  to  come  here  just  as  soon  as  ever  he  can.  I 
want  to  see  him,  and  there  is  not  any  time  to  lose." 

The  girl's  lip  quivered.  A  strange  feeling  of  approach- 
ing desolation  was  with  her;  and  her  outlook  was  of  the 
dreariest.  If  it  were  true,  as  the  old  man  evidently  believed, 
that  his  hour  had  come,  she  would  again  be  friendless  and 
solitary  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Abel  Graham  saw  these 
signs  of  grief,  and  a  curious  'softness  visited  his  heart, 
though  he  could  scarce  believe  one  so  fair  and  sweet  could 
really  care  for  him. 

Gladys  made  the  utmost  haste  to  do  her  errand,  and  to 
her  great  satisfaction  was  told  when  she  reached  the  large 
and  well-appointed  chambers  of  that  influential  firm  that 
Mr.  Fordyce,  senior,  would  attend  to  her  in  a  moment.  She 
stood  in  the  outer  office  waiting,  unconscious  that  she  was 
the  subject  of  remark  and  speculation  among  the  clei-ks  at 
their  desks,  still  more  unconscious  that  one  day  her  name 
would  be  as  familiar  and  respected  among  them  as  that  of 
the  governor  himself.  After  a  lapse  of  a  few  minutes  the 
office-boy  ushered  her  into  the  private  room  of  Mr.  Fordyce, 
senior.  He  was  a  fine,  benevolent-looking,  elderly  gentle- 
man, with  a  rosy,  happy  face,  silver  hair  and  whiskers,  and 
a  keen  but  kindly  blue  eye.  He  appeared  to  be  a  very 
grand  gentleman,  indeed,  in  the  eyes  of  Gladys. 


100  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"Well,  my  dear  miss,  what  can  I  do  for  you,  eh?"  he 
asked,  beaming  at  her  over  the  gold  rims  of  his  double  eye- 
glass in  a  very  reassuring  way. 

"  Please,  my  uncle  has  sent  me  to  ask  you  to  come  and 
see  him  at  once,  as  he  is  very  ill." 

"And  who  is  your  uncle,  my  dear?  It  will  be  necessary 
for  you  to  tell  me  that,"  he  said,  with  the  slightest  suggestion 
of  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  My  uncle,  Mr.  Graham,  who  lives  in  Colquhoun  Street." 

"Abel  Graham — O,  yes.  Is  he  ill?  And,  bless  me,  are  you 
his  niece?" 

Never  was  surprise  so  genuinely  felt  or  expressed  as  at 
that  moment  by  Mr.  Fordyce. 

"Yes;  I  am  his  niece;  and,  please,  could  you  come  as  soon 
as  possible?  He  is  very  ill.  lam  afraid  he  thinks  he  is 
dying." 

The  girl's  voice  trembled,  and  a  tear  fell  like  a  dew-drop 
from  her  long  eyelashes.  These  things  still  more  amazed 
the  soul  of  Mr.  Fordyce.  That  anybody  should  shed  a  tear 
for  a  being  so  sordid  and  unsociable  as  Abel  Graham  struck 
him  as  one  of  the  extraordinary  things  he  had  met  with  in 
his  career.  And  to  see  this  fair  young  creature,  fitted  by 
nature  for  a  sphere  and  for  companionship  so  different,  sin- 
cerely grieving  for  the  old  man's  distress,  seemed  the 
most  extraordinary  thing  of  all.  Mr.  Fordyce  rose,  and,  call- 
ing the  boy,  bade  him  bring  a  cab  to  the  door;  then  he  began 
to  get  into  his  great  coat. 

"  I  '11  drive  you  back,  if  you  have  nowhere  else  to  go.  So 
you  are  his  niece;  well,  there  's  more  sense  and  shrewdness 
in  the  old  man  than  I  gave  him  credit  for." 

These  remarks  were,  of  course,  quite  enigmatical  to  Gladys ; 
but  she  felt  cheered  and  comforted  by  the  strong,  kindly 
presence  of  the  genial  old  lawyer.  As  for  him,  he  regarded 
her  with  a  mixture  of  lively  interest,  real  compassion,  and 
profound  surprise.  Perhaps  the  latter  predominated.  He 
had,  in  the  course  of  a  long  professional  career,  encountered 


SETTING  HIS  HOUSE  IN  ORDER.  101 

many  strange  experiences,  become  familiar  with  many  curi- 
ous and  tragic  life-stories,  but,  he  told  himself,  he  had  never 
met  a  more  interesting  case  than  this. 

"It's  a  romance,1"  he  said,  out  loud  in  the  cab,  and  Gladys 
looked  at  him  in  mild  surprise ;  but  though  she  did  not  stand 
in  awe  of  him  at  all,  she  did  not  presume  to  ask  what  he 
meant. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  my  dear,  have  you  been  happy  in  this — 
this  place  ?"  he  inquired,  significantly,  as  the  cab  rumbled  over 
the  rough  causeway  of  the  Wynd  into  Colquhoun  Street. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  happy.  I  only  know  now,  when  I 
think  it  may  not  be  my  shelter  very  long." 

Mr.  Fordyce  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"  Poor  girl !  she  knows  nothing,  absolutely  nothing!"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  What  a  revelation  it  will  be  to  her!  Yes, 
it 's  a  thrilling  romance." 

The  greeting  between  the  well-known  lawyer  and  his 
strange  client  was  not  ceremonious.  It  consisted  of  a  couple 
of  nods  and  a  brief  good-morning.  Then  Gladys  was  re- 
quested to  leave  them  alone.  Nothing  loath,  she  ran  up-stairs 
to  Walter,  whose  sorrow  lay  heavy  on  her  heart. 

"  Your  niece  has  surprised  me,  Mr.  Graham,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "  Yes,  very  much  indeed." 

"  Why?    What  did  you  expect  to  see,  eh  ?" 

"  Not  a  refined  and  lovely  young  woman  in  a  place  like 
this,  certainly,"  he  said  frankly,  and  looking  round  with  an 
expression  of  extreme  disgust.  "  Has  it  never  occurred  to 
you  what  poor  preparation  Miss  Graham  has  had  for  the 
position  you  intend  her  to  fill?" 

"  That 's  none  of  your  business,"  retorted  the  old  man, 
sharply.  "She  doesn't  need  any  preparation,  I  tell  you. 
Cottage  or  palace  are  the  same  to  her.  She'll  be  a  queen  in 
either." 

This  strange  speech  made  the  lawyer  look  at  the  old  man 
intently.  He  perceived  that  underneath  his  brusque,  for- 
bidding exterior,  there  burned  the  steady  light  of  a  great 


102 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 


love  for  his  brother's  child  ;  and  here  surely  was  the  greatest 
marvel  of  all. 

"  I  did  not  bring  you  here  to  make  remarks*  on  1113* 
niece,"  he  said,  peevishly.  "  Bead  that  over,  and  tell  me 
if  it's  all  right;  if  there's  anything  to  be  added  or  taken 
away.  There's  a  clause  /  want  added  about  the  boy,  Walter 
Hepburn.  He's  been  with  me  a  long  time,  and  though  he's 
a  veiy  firebrand,  he  \s  faithful  and  honest.  He  won't  rue  it." 

Mr.  Fordyce  adjusted  his  eye-glass,  and  spread  out  the 
will  before  him.  Up-stairs  the  two  young  beings,  drawn 
close  together  by  a  common  sorrow  and  a  common  need, 
tried  to  look  into  the  future  with  hopeful  eyes,  not  knowing 
that  in  the  room  below  that  very  future  was  being  assured 
for  them  in  a  way  they  knew  not. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LAST  SUMMONS. 

OT7  LL  look  after  her,  -Mr.  Fordyce ;  promise  me 
that."  said  the  old  man  when  they  had  gone  over 
the  contents  of  the  will. 

"  Why.  yes,  I  will,  so  far  as  I  can,"  answered 
the  lawyer,  without   hesitation.     "She  will   not 
lack   friends,  you  may  rest  assured.     This,"  he  added,  tap- 
ping the  blue  paper,  '•  will  insure  her  more  friends  than  she 
may  need." 

"  Ay,  it 's  from  such  I  want  you  to  guard  her.  I  know 
how  many  sharks  there  are  who  would  regard  an  unpro- 
tected girl  like  her  as  their  lawful  prey.  She  '11  marry  some 
day,  I  hope,  and  wisely.  But  it  is  in  the  interval  she  needs 
looking  after.'' 

"How  old  is  she?" 
"  Seventeen  and  a  half,  I  think.'' 

"  She  looks  her  age ;  a  remarkably  calm  and  self- 
possessed  young  lady.  I  thought  her  to-day.  And  she  has  no 
idea  of  this,  you  say?'' 

"Positively  none,"  answered  the  old  man,  with  some- 
thing like  a  chuckle.  "  Why,  this  very  morning  we  spoke 
of  what  she  would  do  when  I  'm  away ;  hut  it  does  n't  seem 

103 


104  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

to  be  worrying  her  much.  I  never  saw  a  person,  old  or 
young,  with  greater  powers  of  adapting  themselves  to  any 
circumstances — any  circumstances,  mind  you — so  you  need  n't 
be  exercised  about  her  future  deportment.  She'll  astonish 
you,  I  promise  you  that.-" 

"  You  really  believe,  then,  that  you  won't  get  better." 

"I  know  I  won't;  a  man  knows  these  things  in  spite  of 
himself,"  was  the  calm  reply.  The  Iaw3rer  looked  at  him 
keenly,  almost  wonderingly.  He  did  not  know  him  inti- 
mately. Only  within  recent  years  had  he  been  engaged  to 
manage  his  monetary  affairs,  and  only  six  months  before 
had  drawn  up  the  will,  which,  it  may  be  said,  had  consider- 
ably surprised  him.  Looking  at  him  just  then,  he  wondered 
whether  there  might  not  be  depths  undreamed  of  under  the 
crust  of  the  miser's  soul. 

"  You  are  behaving  very  generously  to  this  young  fellow, 
Hepburn,"  he  said  then,  leaving  his  deeper  thoughts  un- 
spoken. "He  may  consider  himself  very  fortunate.  Such 
a  windfall  comes  to  few  in  a  position  like  his." 

"Ay,  ay.  I  dare  say  it  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it/' 
responded  the  old  man  indifferently.  "  Well,  I  'm  tired,  and 
there 's  no  more  to  talk  about.  Everthing  is  right  and  tight, 
is  it?  No  possibility  of  a  muddle  at  the  end  ?" 

"  .None,"  answered  Mr.  Fordyce,  promptly,  as  ho  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"  "Well,  good-day  to  you.  I  have  your  promise  to  see  that 
the  girl  doesn't  fall  into  the  hands  of  Philistines.  I  do  n't 
offer  you  any  reward.  You  '11  pay  yourself  for  your  lawful 
work,  I  know ;  and  for  the  rest — well,  I  inquired  well  what 
I  was  doing,  and  though  I  'm  not  a  Christian  myself,  I 
was  not  above  putting  myself  into  the  hands  of  a  Christian 
lawyer." 

A  curious,  dry  smile  accompanied  these  words,  but  they 
were  spoken  with  the  utmost  sincerity.  They  conveyed  one 
of  the  highest  tributes  to  his  worth  Gilbert  Fordyce  had 
ever  received.  He  carefully  gathered  together  the  loose 


THE  LAST  SUMMONS.  105 

papers,  and  for  a  moment  nothing  was  said.  Then  he  bent 
his  keen  and  kindly  eye  full  on  the  old  man's  wan  and 
withered  face. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  not  a  Christian,  as  you  say, 
what  is  your  hope  for  the  next  world?" 

"  I  have  none,"  he  answered,  calmly.  "  I  am  no  coward. 
If  it  be  true,  as  they  say,  that  a  system  of  award  and  punish- 
ment prevails,  then  I  'm  ready  to  take  my  deserts." 

The  lawyer  could  not  reply  to  these  sad  words,  because 
Gladys  at  the  moment  entered  the  kitchen. 

(i  I  have  come,"  she  said,  brightly,  "  because  I  fear  you  are 
talking  too  much,  uncle.  O,  are  you  going  away,  Mr.  For- 
dyce?  I  am  glad  the  business  is  all  done.  See,  he  is  quite 
exhausted." 

She  poured  some  stimulant  into  a  glass  and  carried  it  to 
him,  holding  it  to  his  lips  with  her  own  hand.  The  old  man 
looked  over  her  bent  head  significantly.  The  lawyer's  eyes 
met  his,  and  he  gravely  nodded,  understanding  that  that  mute 
sign  asked  a  further  promise. 

Gladys  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  and  the  lawyer  laid 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  with  a  fatherly  touch. 

"My  dear,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

"  Do  you,  then,  think  him  so  very  ill?"  she  asked  breath- 
lessly. "He  says  he  will  die;  but  I  have  nursed  my  own 
father  through  much  worse  attacks." 

"He  appears  to  have  given  up  hope;  but  while  life  lasts 
we  need  not  despair,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  Good-bye.  I  shall 
come  back  perhaps  to-morrow." 

He  thought  much  of  her  all  day;  and,  when  he  retm'ned 
to  his  happy  home  at  night,  told  the  story  to  his  wife,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  strong  sympath}7  of  these  two  kind 
hearts  supported  Gladys  through  the  ordeal  of  that  trying 
time.  In  the  evening  "Walter  took  himself  off  to  Bridgeton, 
reluctant  to  go,  yet  anxious  to  hear  further  particulars  regard- 
ing the  flight  of  Liz.  He  arrived  at  the  dreary  house  to  find 
his  mother  engaged  with  the  weekly  wash.  Now,  there  was 


106  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

no  reason  why  the  washing  should  be  done  at  night,  seeing  she 
had  the  whole  day  at  her  disposal ;  but  it  seemed  to  take  these 
hours  to  rouse  her  up  to  sufficient  energy.  She  was  one  of 
those  unhappy  creatures  who  have  no  method,  no  idea  of 
planning,  so  that  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  work  can  be 
done  in  the  shortest  and  at  the  most  fitting  time.  This  habit 
of  choosing  unfavorable  and  unseasonable  hours  for  work 
which  upsets  the  whole  house,  had,  no  doubt,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, helped  to  drive  her  husband  outside  for  his  company. 
She  looked  round  from  the  tub,  and  gave  her  son  a  nod  by 
way  of  greeting,  but  did  not  open  her  mouth.  Her  little 
kitchen  was  full  of  steam,  the  floor  swimming  in  soap-suds — 
the  whole  appearance  of  the  place  suggestive  of  confusion  and 
discomfort.  Walter  picked  his  way  across  the  floor,  and  sat 
down  on  the  window-box,  his  favorite  seat. 

"Always  washing  at  night  yet,  mother,"  he  said,  discon- 
tentedly. "  Have  you  no  time  through  the  day?" 

"  No,  it 's  meat-makin'  frae  mornin'  till  nicht.  This  is  the 
only  time  there  's  a  mecnit's  peace,"  she  answered,  stolidly. 

"You'll  have  one  less  to  cook  for  now,  then,"  he  said, 
gloomily.  "  When  did  Liz  go  off,  and  have  you  any  idea 
where  she  's  gone?" 

Mrs.  Hepburn  shook  her  head. 

"  I  was  oot  a'  Tuesday  nicht ;  an'  when  I  cam'  in  on  the 
back  o'  eleven  she  was  aff,  bag  an'  baggage.  Mrs.  Turnbull 
says  she  gaed  doon  the  stair  wi'  her  Sunday  claes  on,  an' 
cariyin'  her  tin-box,  a  wee  efter  aicht.  'Are  ye  for  jauntin', 
Liz?'  says  she;  but  Liz  never  gied  her  an  answer,  guid  or 
bad, — an'  that's  a'  I  ken." 

"Did  she  never  give  a  hint  that  she  was  thinking  of 
going?"  Walter  asked. 

"  No  her.  Liz  was  aye  close — as  close  as  yersel',"  said  his 
mother,  rather  sarcastically.  "  She 's  aff,  onyhoo !" 

"  Do  you  think  she  has  gone  away  with  any  one — a  man,  I 
mean?"  asked  Walter  then,  and  his  face  flushed  as  he  asked 
the  question. 


THE  LAST  SUMMONS.  107 

"I  couldna  say,  I  'm  sure,"  answered  his  mother,  with  a 
stolid  indifference  which  astonished  even  him.  "  Ye  ken  as 
muckle  as  me;  but  as  she's  made  her  bed  she  maun  lie  on't. 
I  've  washed  my  hands  o'  her." 

"It's  long  since  you  washed  your  hands  of  us  both, 
mother,  so  far  as  interest  or  guidance  goes,"  the  lad  could 
not  refrain  from  saying,  with  bitterness.  But  the  reproach 
did  not  strike  home. 

"If  it's  news  ye  want,  I'll  tell  ye  where  ye '11  get  it," 
she  said,  sourly.  "At  Teen's.  Eh,  she  's  an  ill  hizzio.  If 
Liz  comes  to  grief,  it 's  her  wyte.  I  canna  bide  thon 
smooth-faced  pookit  cat.  She'll  no  show  her  face  here  in  a 
hurry." 

"I  've  a  good  mind  to  look  in  at  Teen's  and  ask.  Where's 
the  old  man  to-night?" 

"  O,  guid  kens  whaur  he  aye  is.  He  's  on  hauf-time  the 
noo,  an'  never  sober.  Eh,  it 's  an  ill  world." 

She  drew  her  hands  from  the  suds,  wiped  them  on  her 
wet  apron,  and,  lifting  a  pint-bottle  from  the  chimney-piece, 
took  along  draught. 

"  A  body  needs  something  to  keep  them  up  when  they  've 
to  wash  i'  the  nicht-time,"  was  her  only  apology;  but  almost 
immediately  she  became  much  more  talkative,  and  began  to 
regale  Walter  with  sundry  minute  and  highly-spiced  anec- 
dotes about  the  neighbors'  failings,  which  altogether  wearied 
and  disgusted  him. 

"I'll  away,  then,  mother,  and  see  if  Teen  knows  any- 
thing. Liz  will  maybe  write  her." 

"Maybe.  She's  fit  enough,"  replied  Mrs.  Hepburn,  stol- 
idly; and  Walter,  more  heavy-hearted  than  ever,  bade  her 
good-night  and  departed.  Never  had  he  felt  more  fearfully 
alone — alone  even  in  his  anxiety  for  Liz.  He  had  at  least 
expected  his  mother  to  show  some  concern ;  but  she  did 
not  appear  to  think  it  of  the  slightest  consequence.  In 
about  ten  minutes  he  was  rapping  at  the  door  of  the  attic 
where  his  sister's  friend,  Teen,  supported  existence. 


108  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"O,  it's  you!  Come  in,"  she  said,  when  she  recognized 
him  by  holding  the  candle  high  above  his  head,  and  looking 
profoundly  surprised  to  see  him.  "  What  is  't?" 

"  I  thought  you  'd  know.  I  came  to  ask  if  you  could  tell 
me  what  has  become  of  Liz." 

"Liz,"  she  repeated  so  blankly,  that  he  immediately  per- 
ceived she  was  in  complete  ignorance  of  the  affair.  "What 
d  'ye  mean?  Come  in." 

Walter  stepped  across  the  threshold,  and  Teen  closed  the 
door.  The  small  apartment  into  which  he  was  ushered  was 
very  meager  and  bare ;  but  it  was  clean  and  tidy,  and  more 
comfortable  in  every  way  than  the  one  he  had  just  left.  A 
dull  fire  smoldered  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  grate,  and  the 
inevitable  tea-pot  sat  upon  the  hob.  The  little  seamstress 
was  evidently  very  busy,  piles  of  her  coarse,  unlovely  work 
lying  on  the  floor. 

"Has  onything  happened  Liz?"  she  asked,  in  open-eyed 
wonder  and  interest. 

"Yes.  I  suppose  it  has.  She's  run  off,  bag  and  bag- 
gage— on  Tuesday,  my  mother  says,  and  this  is  Thursday." 

"O,  my!" 

Teen  took  a  large  and  expressive  mouthful  of  these  two 
monosyllables.  Walter  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"Don't  you  know  where  she  has  gone?  Did  she  tell 
you  anything?" 

"  No  her.  Liz  was  aye  close  aboot  hersel' ;  but  maybe  I 
can  guess." 

"  Tell  me,  then.     Is  anybody  with  her." 

"  She  's  no  hersel',  you  bet,"  Teen  answered,  shrewdly. 
"  NFy,  she  's  ta'en  the  better  o's  a' ;  but  maybe  I  'm  wrang. 
She  's  been  sick  o'  Brigton  for  lang  and  lang,  an'  whiles  she 
said  she  wad  gang  awa'  to  London  an'  seek  her  fortune." 

Walter  sprang  up,  an  immense  load  lifted  from  his  mind. 
If  that  were  all,  he  had  needlessly  tormented  himself. 

"Did  she  say  that?  Then  it's  all  right.  Of  course, 
that 's  where  she  's  gone.  Do  n't  you  think  so?" 


THE  LAST  SUMMONS.  109 

"  Maybe.  It 's  likely,  only  I  think  she  micht  V  telt  me. 
We  made  up  to  gang  thegither  when  we  had  saved  the  screw. 
She  had  a  beau,  but  I  raither  think  it 's  no  wi'  him  she's 
awa'.  Liz  could  watch  hersel' ;  but  I  '11  fin'  oot." 

"  Did  you  know  him ?     Who  was  he?"  asked  Walter. 

"  O,  fine  I  kent  him ;  but  I  'm  no  at  liberty  to  tell.  It 
wadna  dae  ony  guid  till  we  see  onyhoo." 

"  If  you  find  out  anything,  will  you  let  me  know?" 

"  Yes,  I  '11  dae  that.  How  are  you  gettin'  on  yersel'  ?  an' 
thon  queer  deil  o'  a  lassie.  I  canna  mak'  onything  o'  her." 

"  I  'm  getting  on  fine,  thank  you,"  Walter  answered, 
rather  shortly.  "  Good-night  to  you,  and  thank  you. 
Maybe  Liz  will  write  to  you." 

"  Very  likely.  I  '11  let  ye  ken  ony  way.  If  she  writes  to 
onybody  it  '11  be  to  me,"  Teen  answered,  with  a  kind  of  quiet 
pride.  "  She  telt  me  a'thing  she  didna  keep  to  hersel'.  But 
I  dinna  think  mysel'  there  's  a  beau  in  this  business.  The 
theater  wad  be  maire  like  it.  She  had  aye  a  desire  to  be  an 
actress." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Walter,  in  surprise.  He  had  never  before 
heard  such  a  thing  hinted  at;  but  no  doubt  it  was  true.  He 
really  knew  very  little  about  his  sister,  although  they  had 
always  been  the  best  of  friends. 

His  heart  was  not  quite  so  heavy  as  he  retraced  his  steps 
to  Colquhoun  Street.  If  Liz,  tired  of  the  gray  monotony 
and  degradation  of  home,  had  only  gone  forth  into  the  world 
to  seek  something  better  for  herself,  all  might  yet  be  well. 
He  took  comfort  in  dwelling  upon  her  strength  and  decision 
of  character,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  judged 
her  too  hastily,  and  that  she  was  a  most  unlikely  person  to 
throw  away  her  reputation.  What  an  immense  relief  that 
thought  gave  him  was  known  only  to  himself  and  God. 

Ten  was  pealing  from  the  city  bells  when  he  reached 
home.  When  he  entered  the  kitchen  a  strange  scene  met 
his  view.  His  master  was  propped  up  by  pillows,  and  evi- 
dently suffering  painfully  from  his  breathing;  and  over  his 


110  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

pinched  features  had  crept  that  gray  shadow  which  even  the 
unpracticed  eye  can  discern  and  comprehend.  The  young 
doctor  stood  sympathetically  by,  conscious  that  he  had  given 
his  last  aid  and  must  stand  aside.  Gladys  knelt  by  the  bed 
with  folded  hands,  her  golden  head  bowed  in  deep  and  bitter 
silence.  She  saw  her  last  friend  drifting  toward  the  mystic 
sea,  and  felt  as  if  the  blackness  of  midnight  surrounded  her. 

"Surely,  doctor,  this  is  a  sudden  and  awful  change?" 
Walter  said  to  the  doctor ;  but  he  put  up  his  hand. 

"llush,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  dying  man,  who  essayed 
through  his  struggling  breath  to  speak. 

"  Pray,"  he  said  at  last,  and  they  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  dumbly  for  a  moment.  Then  the  girl's  sweet  voice 
broke  the  dreary  silence,  and  she  prayed  as  one  who  has  been 
long  familiar  with  such  words,  and  who,  while  praying,  be- 
lieves the  answer  will  be  given.  The  words  of  that  prayer 
were  never  forgotten  by  the  two  young  men  who  heard  them  ; 
they  seemed  to  bring  heaven  very  near  to  that  humble  spot 
of  earth. 

"For  Christ's  sake." 

Abel  Graham  repeated  these  words  after  her  in  a  painful 
whisper,  and  his  struggling  ceased. 

"  It's  all  over,"  said  the  doctor,  reverently.  And  it  was. 
Ay,  all  over,  so  far  as  this  world  was  concerned,  with  Abel 
Graham. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THOSE  LEF^T  BEHIND. 

HAT  was  a  sail  night  for  Gladys  Graham  and 
for  Walter.  Feeling  that  she  required  the  help 
and  presence  of  a  woman.  Walter  ran  up  for  the 
kind-hearted  Mrs.  Macintyre.  whom  (iladys  had 
occasionally  seen  and  spoken  with  since  she  took 
up  her  abode  in  Colquhoun  Street.  It  is  among  the  very  poor 
we  find  the  rarest  instances  of  disinterested  and  sympathetic 
kindness:  deeds  of  true  neighborliness.  performed  without 
thought  or  expectation  of  reward.  Mrs.  Macintyre  required 
no  second  bidding.  In  five  minutes  she  was  with  the  stricken 
girl,  ready,  in  her  rough  \vay.  to  do  all  that  was  necessary, 
and  to  take  the  burden  otV  the  young  shoulders  so  early  in- 
ured to  care.  When  their  work  was  done,  and  Abel  Graham 
lay  placidly  upon  the  pure  linen  of  his  last  bed,  Mrs.  Mat- 
in tyre  suggested  that  Gladys  should  go  home  with  her  for 
the  night. 

'•It's   no   for  ye  bidin'  here  yersel'.  my  doo."  she  said, 
with  homely  but  sincere  sympathy.     "  My  place  is  sma',  but 
it's  clean,  and  ye 're  welcome  to  it." 
Gladys  shook  her  head. 

';  I  do  n't  mind  staying  here.  I  assure  you.     I  have  seen 

111 


112  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

death  before.  It  is  not  dreadful  to  me,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  the  calm,  reposeful  face  of  her  uncle,  and  being  most  ten- 
derly struck  by  the  resemblance  to  her  own  father.  Death 
is  always  kind,  and  will  give  us,  when  we  least  expect  it, 
some  sudden  compensation  for  what  he  takes  from  us.  That 
faint  resemblance  composed  Gladys,  and  gave  her  yet  more 
loving  thoughts  of  the  old  man.  He  had  been  kind  when,  in 
his  own  rugged  way,  the  first  harshness  of  his  bearing 
towards  her  had  swiftly  been  mellowed  by  her  own  sweet, 
subtle  influence.  We  must  not  too  harshly  blame  Abel  Gra- 
ham. His  environment  had  been  of  a  kind  to  foster  the 
least  beautiful  attributes  of  his  nature.  The  only  being 
Gladys  could  think  of  to  help  her  with  the  other  arrange- 
ments was  Mr.  Fordyce.  She  seemed  to  turn  naturally  to 
him  in  her  time  of  need.  A  message  sent  to  St.  Vincent 
Street  in  the  morning  brought  him  speedily,  and  he  greeted 
her  with  a  mixture  of  fatherly  compassion  and  sympathy 
which  broke  her  down. 

"  You  see  it  has  not  been  long,"  she  said,  with  a  quiver 
of  the  lips.  "  I  do  not  know  what  to  do,  or  how  to  act.  I 
thought  you  would  know  everything." 

"  I  know  what  is  necessary  here,  at  least,  my  dear,  and  it 
shall  be  done,"  he  responded,  kindly.  "  The  first  thing  I 
would  suggest  is,  that  you  should  come  home  with  me  just 
now." 

Gladys  looked  at  him  wonderingly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  that  is  quite  impossible,"  she 
said,  quickly. 

"  I  shall  not  leave  here  until  all  is  over,  and  then  I  do 
not  know  what  I  shall  do.  God  will  show  me." 

The  lawyer  was  deeply  moved. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
there  might  be  something  left  for  you,  a  substantial  provision 
which  will  place  you  at  once  above  the  need  of  considering 
what  you  are  to  do,  so  far  as  providing  for  yourself  is  con- 
cerned?" 


THOSE  LEFT  BEHIND.  113 

"I  have  not  thought  about  it.  Is  it  so?''  she  asked, 
quickly  yet  not  with  the  eager  elation  of  the  expectant  heir. 

"  You  are  very  well  left,  indeed,"  he  answered.  "  If  you 
like  I  can  explain  it  to  you  now." 

But  Gladys  shrank  a  little  as  she  glanced  toward  the  bed. 

"  Xot  now.  Let  it  be  after  it  is  all  over.  It  does  not 
matter  now.  I  know  it  will  be  all  right.'' 

"Just  as  you  will;  but  I  can  not  bear  to  go  and  leave 
you  here,  Miss  Graham.  Will  you  not  think  better  of  it? 
My  wife  and  daughters  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  they  will 
be  very  kind  and  sympathetic,  I  can  assure  you  of  that.  Let 
me  take  you  away." 

But  Gladys,  though  grateful,  still  shook  her  head. 

"  I  promised  your  uncle  to  take  care  of  you,"  he  urged. 
"  If  I  go  and  leave  you  in  such  sad  circumstances  here,  so 
alone,  I  should  feel  that  I  am  not  redeeming  my  promise." 

"  I  thank  you,  and  I  shall  come,  perhaps,  after,  if  you  are 
so  kind  as  to  wish  me  to  come;  but  not  now.  And  I  am  not 
quite  alone  here.  I  have  Walter." 

Mr.  Fordyce  did  not  know  what  to  say.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  suggest  that  Walter's  very  presence  in  the 
house  was  one  reason  why  she  should  quit  it.  She  knew 
nothing  of  conventionalities  or  proprieties,  and  this  was  not 
the  time  to  suggest  them  to  her  mind.  He  could  only  leave 
the  whole  matter  at  rest. 

"  Can  I  see  this  Walter?"  he  asked  then.  "1  have  papers 
concerning  him  also.  I  may  as  well  see  him  now." 

"  He  is  up-stairs.     Shall  I  call  him  down  ?" 

"  No.  I  shall  go  up,"  answered  the  lawyer,  and  Gladys 
pointed  him  to  the  stairs  leading  up  to  the  warehouse.  Wal- 
ter rose  from  his  stool  at  the  desk,  and  stood  at  the  door  of 
the  little  office. 

"  Good  morning,"  both  said,  and  then  they  looked  at  each 
other  quite  steadily  for  a  moment.  Mr.  Fordyce  was  as- 
tonished at  the  lad's  youth,  still  more  at  his  manly  and  inde- 
pendent bearing,  and  he  told  himself  that  his  strange  client 


114  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

had  exhibited  considerable  shrewdness  in  the  disposal  of  his 
worldly  goods. 

"  This  is  a  very  sad  affair,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  Sad  and 
sudden.  Mr.  Graham  was  an  old  man,  but  he  has  always 
been  so  robust,  he  appeared  to  have  the  prospect  of  still 
longer  life.  It  will  make  a  great  change  here  " 

"  It  will,  sir."  Walter  placed  a  chair  for  him,  and  a  look 
of  genuine  relief  was  visible  on  his  face.  "  I  am  very  glad 
you  have  come  up.  I  was  sitting  here  thinking  over  things. 
It  is  a  very  strange  case." 

"You  know  something,  I  presume,  of  this  business, 
whether  it  was  a  paying  concern  or  not,"  said  the  lawyer, 
keenly. 

"  It  is  a  large  business  done  in  a  small  way,  sir — a  wor- 
rying, unsatisfactory  kind  of  business.  I  know  that  much  ; 
but  my  master  always  kept  his  books  himself,  and  I  had  no 
means  of  knowing  whether  it  really  paid  or  not.  I  know 
there  were  bad  debts,  a  lot  of  them ;  but  I  am  quite  ignorant 
of  the  state  of  affairs.  I  have  only  one  hope,  -sir,  which  I 
trust  will  not  be  disappointed." 

"Well?"  inquired  the  lawyer,  steadily,  when  the  young 
man  stopped  hesitatingly, 

"  That  there  will  be  something  left  for  Miss  Gladys. 
That  has  troubled  rne  ever  since  the  master  took  ill." 

"You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest,  then.  Miss  Graham 
will  bo  a  rich  woman." 

"  Walter  looked  incredulous  at  these  words. 

"A rich  woman  ?''  he  repeated ;  "  a  rich  woman  ?  0, 1  am 
glad  of  it!" 

His  face  flushed,  his  eye  shone  with  the  intensity  of  his 
emotion.  He  was  very  young;  but  these  signs  betrayed  an 
interest  in  the  fate  of  Gladys  Graham  which  stirred  a  vague 
pity  in  the  lawyer's  heart. 

"  Yes,  a  rich  woman ;  and  you  are  not  forgotten.  There 
is  a  will,  which,  however,  Miss  Graham  desires  shall  not  be 
read  till  after  the  funeral ;  but  there  is  no  harm  in  telling 


THOSE  LEFT  BEHIND.  115 

you  a  part  of  its  contents  which  concerns  you.  Mr.  Graham 
had  the  Very  highest  opinion  of  your  character  and  ability, 
and  though  he  may  not  have  seemed  very  appreciative  in 
life,  he  has  not  forgotten  to  mark  substantially  his 
approval.  You  are  left  absolutely  in  control  of  this  busi- 
ness, with  the  power  to  make  of  it  what  you  will,  and 
there  is  a  legacy  of  five  hundred  pounds  to  enable  you  to 
carry  it  on." 

Walter  became  quite  pale,  and  began  to  tremble,  though 
he  was  not  given  to  such  exhibitions  of  nervousness. 

"  0,  sir,  there  must  be  some  mistake,  surely,"  he  said, 
quickly.  "  It  can  not  be  true." 

"It  is  quite  true,  and  I  congratulate  you  and  wish  you 
every  success.  There  are  very  few  young  men  in  similar 
circumstances  who  have  such  an  opportunity  given  them. 
I  hope  you  will  be  guided  to  use  both  means  and  oppor- 
tunity for  the  best  possible  end.  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  of  any 
service  to  you  at  any  time.  Do  not  scruple  to  ask  me.  I 
mean  what  I  say." 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

They  were  commonplace  words,  but  spoken  with  an  ear- 
liest sincerity  which  indicated  a  deeper  feeling. 

Mr.  Fordyce  looked  round  the  large,  dingy  warehouse 
with  a  slightly  puzzled  air. 

"  Who  would  think  that  there  was  so  much  money  in 
this  affair?"  he  said,  musingly.  "But  I  suppose  it  was 
carried  on  at  very  little  expense.  Well,  the  poor  old  man 
had  little  pleasure  in  life.  It  was  a  great  mistake.  He 
might  have  blessed  himself  and  others  with  his  means  in 
his  life-time.  It  is  strange  that  the  young  lady  should 
appear  to  mourn  so  sincerely  for  him.  It  was  an  awful  life 
for  her  here." 

"  He  was  never  unkind  to  her/'  answered  Walter.  "And 
latterly  he  could  not  do  enough  for  her.  She  won  him  com- 
pletely, and  made  a  different  man  of  him." 

"  I   quite  believe   it     One  of  the   weak  things  of  the 


116  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

world,"  he  said  more  to  himself  than  to  his  listener. 
"  There  's  a  different  life  opening  up  for  her — it  will  be  a 
great  change  to  her.  Well,  good-morning.  I  wish  you  well, 
and  you  '11  remember  rny  desire  to  be  a  friend  to  you  should 
you  ever  need  me." 

"  I  won't  forget,"  cried  Walter,  with  beaming  eye.  "  Miss 
Gladys  said  you  would  make  all  the  arrangements  for  the 
funeral." 

"  I  will.  They  are  easily  made,  because  Mr.  Graham  left 
the  most  explicit  directions.  He  desires  to  be  buried  by  his 
own  folk  in  the  churchyard  of  Mauchline.  I  am  going  out 
this  afternoon." 

Then  the  lawyer  went  away,  but  before  proceeding  to  the 
station  he  wrote  a  note  to  his  wife,  and  sent  it  by  messen- 
ger to  his  house  at  Kelvinside.  About  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  as  Gladys  was  putting  a  black  ribbon  in  her  hat, 
a  cab  rattled  over  the  rough  causeway,  and  a  knock  came 
to  the  house  door.  And  when  Gladys  went  to  open  it, 
what  was  her  surprise  to  behold  on  the  threshold  a  lady 
richly  dressed,  but  wearing  on  her  sweet,  motherly  face 
a  look  so  truly  kind  that  the  girl's  heart  warmed  to  her 
at  once! 

"I  am  Mrs.  Fordyce,"  the  lady  said.  "  You,  I  think,  are 
Miss  Graham.  May  I  come  in?" 

"Certainly,  madam." 

Gladys  held  open  the  door  wide,  and  Mrs.  Fordyce  entered 
the  dark  and  gloomy  passage. 

"  We  have  a  very  small,  poor  place,"  said  Gladys,  as  she 
led  the  way.  "  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  have  no  room  to 
show  you  intq,  except  where  my  poor  uncle  lies." 

"  My  dear,  I  quite  know.  Mr.  Fordyce  has  told  me.  It  is 
you  I  have  come  to  see." 

When  they  entered  the  kitchen  she  laid  her  two  kind  hands 
on  the  girl's  shoulders,  and  turned  her  face  to  the  light. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
brow.  Gladys  burst  into  tears,  It  was  the  first  kiss  she 


THOSE  LEFT  BEHIND.  117 

had  received  since  she  came  to  Glasgow,  and  that  simple 
caress — with  its  accompanying  tenderness  of  look  and  man- 
ner— opened  the  flood-gates  of  her  pent  heart,  and  taught  her 
her  own  loneliness  and  need. 

"  I  can  not  leave  you  here,  my  dear  child.  My  carriage 
is  at  the  door.  You  must  come  home  with  me.  I  shall 
bring  }rou  back  quite  early  to-morrow,  but  I  must  insist 
on  taking  you  away  to-night.  It  is  not  possible  }TOU  can 
stay  here." 

"  I  must.  I  will.  You  are  truly  kind  ;  but  I  shall  not 
leave  my  home  till  I  must.  I  have  my  own  little  room,  and 
I  am  not  quite  alone.  Walter  is  up-stairs." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  saw  that  she  was  firm.  She  looked  at  her 
in  wonder,  noting  with  practiced  eyes  the  neat  refinement  of 
her  poor  dress,  her  sweet  grace,  and  delicate  beauty.  To  find 
a  creature  so  fair  in  such  a  place  was  like  coming  suddenly 
on  a  pure  flower  blooming  in  a  stony  street. 

"  Your  position  is  very  lonely ;  but  you  will  not  find  your- 
self without  friends.  We  must  respect  your  wish  to  remain 
here,  though  the  thought  will  make  me  unhappy  to-night," 
said  the  kind  woman.  "  You  will  promise  to  come  to  us 
when  all  is  over." 

"If  you  still  wish  it;  only  there  is  poor  Walter.  It  will 
be  so  dreadful  for  me  to  leave  him  quite  alone." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  The  child-heart 
still  dwelt  in  Gladys,  though  she  was  almost  a  woman  grown. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  know  nothing  of  the  world.  It  is 
like  reading  a  fairy  story  to  look  at  you  and  hear  you  speak. 
I  hope — I  hope  the  world  will  not  spoil  you." 

"Why  should  it  spoil  me?  I  can  never  know  it  ex- 
cept from  you,"  she  said,  simply. 

Mrs.  Fordyce  looked  round  the  large,  dimly-lighted 
place  with  eyes  in  which  a  wonder  of  pity  lay. 

"  My  child,  is  it  possible  that  you  have  lived  here  almost 
two  years,  as  my  husband  tells  me,  with  no  companion  but 
an  old  man  and  a  working  lad?" 


118  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"I  have  been  quite  happy,"  Gladys  replied,  with  a  slight 
touch  of  dignity  not  lost  upon  the  lawyer's  wife. 

"  Perhaps  because  you  knew  nothing  else.  We  will  show 
you  what  life  can  hold  for  such  as  you,"  she  answered 
kindly,  and  there  came  a  day  when  Gladys  reminded  her  of 
these  words  in  the  bitterness  of  a  wounded  heart. 

When  her  visitor  left,  Gladys  ran  up-stairs  to  Walter. 
They  had  so  Jong  depended  on  each  other  for  solace  and 
sympathy,  that  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  for  her  to  share  this  new  experience  with  him. 

"You  heard  the  lady  speaking,  did  you  not,  Walter?" 
she  asked,  breathlessly.  "  It  was  Mr.  Fordyce's  wife ;  she  is 
so  beautiful  and  so  kind.  Just  think !  she  would  have 
taken  me  away  with  her  in  her  carriage." 

"And  why  did  n't  you  go  ?"  asked  Walter,  in  a  dull,  even 
voice,  and  without  appearing  in  the  least  interested. 

"  0,  because  I  could  not  leave  just  now,"  she  said, 
slowly,  quite  conscious  of  a  change  in  his  voice  and  look. 

"  But  you  will  go,  I  suppose,  after?" 

"I  suppose  so.     They  seem  to  wish  it  very  much." 

"And  you  want  to  go,  of  course.  They  are  very  grand, 
West-end  swells..  I  know  their  house — a  big  mansion  look- 
ing over  the  Kelvin,"  he  said,  not  bitterly,  but  in  the  same 
even,  indifferent  voice. 

"  I  do  n't  know  anything  about  them.  If  that  is  true,  it  is 
still  kinder  of  them  to  think- of  such  a  poor  girl  as  I." 

To  the  astonishment  of  Gladys,  Walter  broke  into  a 
laugh,  not  a  particularly  pleasant  one. 

"  Six  months  after  this  you '11  may  be  take  a  different 
view,"  he  said,  shortly. 

"  Why,  Walter,  what  has  come  to  you?  You  have  so 
many  moods  now  I  never  know  quite  how  to  talk  to  y.ou." 

"  That 's  true,"  he  answered,  brusquely.  "  I  'm  a  fool,  and 
nobody  knows  it  better  than  I." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

INHERITANCE. 

X  the  cheerful  sunshine,  the  following  afternoon 
a  small  funeral  party  left  the  house  in  Col- 
quhoun  Street,  and  drove  to  the  railway  station. 
It  consisted  of  Mr.  Fordyce  the  lawyer,  the 
minister  of  the  parish,  Walter  Helpburn,  and 
Gladys.  It  was  her  own  desire  that  she  should  go.  and  they 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  dissuade  her.  She  was  a  sin- 
cere mourner  for  the  old  man.  and  he  had  not  so  many  that 
they  should  seek  to  prevent  that  one  true  heart  paying  its  last 
tribute  to  his  memory.  So,  for  the  first  time  for  many  years, 
the  burying-ground  of  the  Bourhill  Grahams  was  opened, 
somewhat  to  the  astonishment  of  Mauchline  folks.  The  name 
was  almost  forgotten  in  the  place;  only  one  or  two  of  the 
older  inhabitants  remembered  the  widow  and  her  two  boys, 
and  these  found  memory  dim.  Nevertheless  a  few  gathered 
in  the  old  churchyard,  viewing  with  interest  the  short  pro- 
ceedings, and  with  very  special  interest  the  unusual  specta- 
cle of  a  young,  fair  girl  standing  by  the  grave.  They 
did  not  dream  how  soon  her  name  was  to  become  a  house- 
hold word,  beloved  from  one  end  of  Mauchline  to  the  other. 
The  two  elderly  gentlemen  Avere  very  kind  and  tender  to 

119 


120  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

her,  and  the  clergyman  regarded  her  with  a  curious 
interest,  having  had  a  brief  outline  of  her  story  from 
Mr.  Fordyce.  But  it  was  noticeable  that  she  preferred 
"Walter's  company,  that  she  spoke  oftenest  to  him;  and 
when  the  lawyer  and  the  minister  went  into  the  inn  to 
have  some  refreshment  while  waiting  for  the  train,  the 
two  young  people  walked  up  the  road  to  Mossgiel.  Walter 
was  very  gloomy  and  downcast,  and  she,  quick  to  notice 
it,  asked  the  cause. 

"  You  know  it  quite  well,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  I  suppose 
you  are  going  away  to  these  grand  folks  to-night,  and  there  's 
an  end  of  me." 

"An  end  of  you,  "Walter !  "What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked, 
with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  Just  what  I  say.  "When  JTOU  turn  your  back  on  Col- 
quhoun  Street,  it 's  bound  to  be  forever.  You  '11  be 
West,  I  East.  There 's  no  comings  and  goings  between 
the  two." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  unkind  to  speak  like  that,  and  silly 
as  well,"  she  said,  quickly. 

"  Maybe,  but  it 's  true  all  the  same,"  he  answered,  with  a 
slight  touch  of  bitterness. 

"And  you  deserve  to  be  punished  for  it,"  she  continued, 
with  her  quaint  dignity.  "  Only  I  can  not  quite  make  up 
my  mind  how  to  punish  you,  or,  indeed,  to  do  it  at  all  to-day. 
Look,  Walter," — she  stopped  him  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  with 
a  light  touch  on  his  arm  which  thrilled  him  as  it  had  never 
yet  done,  and  sent  the  blood  to  his  face. 

"  See,  away  over  there,  almost  as  far  as  you  can  see,  on 
yon  little  hill  where  the  trees  are  so  green  and  lovel}',  is  Bour- 
hill,  where  the  Grahams  used  to  live.  I  told  you  how  Uncle 
Abel  said  papa  had  such  a  desire  to  buy  it.  If  I  were  a  rich 
woman,  I  think  I  should  buy  Bourhill." 

"  So  you  will.  I  wish  I  could  give  it  to  you,"  cried  Walter, 
quickly. 

"Do   you?      You   are  very  good.      You   have   always 


HER  INHERITANCE.  121 

been  so  good  and  kind  to  me,  Walter,"  she  said,  dreamily. 
"Yes,  that  isy  Born-hill ;  and  just  think,  you.  can  see  the 
sea  from  it — the  real  sea,  which  I  have  never  seen  in 
in}-  life." 

"You  '11  get  everything  and  see  everything  you  want 
soon,"  he  said  in  a  quiet,  dull  voice.  "And  then  you  '11  for- 
get all  that  went  before." 

"AVe  shall  see." 

She  was  hurt  by  the  abrupt  coldness  of  his  manner, 
and,  having  her  own  pride  of  spirit,  did  not  seek  to 
hide  it. 

"  See,  that  is  Mossgiel  there,  and  we  have  not  time  to  go 
up.  I  think  Mr.  Fordyce  said  we  must  turn  here,"  she  said, 
changing  the  subject,  woman-like,  when  it  did  not  please 
her.  "  But  when  it  is  summer  3*011  and  I  will  come  to 
Mauchline  for  a  day  together,  and  gather  some  daisies  from 
the  field  where  Burns  wrote  his  poem  to  the  daisy ;  that  is," 
she  added  with  a  smile,  "  if  3*011  are  not  disagreeable,  which 
I  must  sa3*,  Walter,  3*011  are  -to-da}* — most  disagreeable, 
indeed." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  then  for  a  moment,  with  an 
earnest,  somewhat  critical  look  ;  and  she  saw  a  tall,  slender 
3*outh,  whose  figure  had  not  attained  to  its  full  breadth  and 
stature,  but  whose  face — grave,  earnest,  noble  even — spoke 
of  the  experience  of  life.  These  two  3'ears  had  done  much 
for  Walter  Hepburn ;  and  she  became  aware  of  it,  suddenh- 
and  with  secret  amazement. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  he  asked, 
almost  angrily.  "  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  my 
clothes?" 

"No,  nothing,  3*ou  cross  bo3*.  I  was  only  thinking  that 
you  had  grown  to  be  a  man  without  any  warning,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  did  not  like  3*ou  better  as  a  boy." 

"  That  is  more  than  likely,"  he  answered — not  in  the 
least  gently ;  but  Gladys  only  smiled.  Her  faith  in  him 
was  so  boundless  and  perfect,  that  she  never  misunderstood 


122  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

him.  In  her  deep  heart  she  guessed  that  the  shadow  of 
the  coming  parting  lay  heavy  on  his  soul.  It  lay  on  hers 
likewise,  but  was  brightened  in  some  subtle  fashion  by  a 
lovely  hope,  which  she  did  not  understand  nor  seek  to 
analyze,  but  which  seemed  to  link  the  troubled  past  and  the 
unknown  future  by  a  band  of  gold.  Wherever  she  might  go, 
or  whatever  might  become  of  her,  she  could  never  lose  Wal- 
ter out  of  her  life.  It  was  the  love  of  the  child  merging 
into  the  mysterious  hope  of  the  woman ;  but  she  did  not  un- 
derstand it  yet.  Had  he  known  even  in  part  how  she  felt, 
it  had  saved  him  many  a  bitter  hour.  But  as  yet  that  solace 
was  denied  him.  That  hot,  rebellious  young  heart  must 
needs  go  through  the  very  furnace  of  pain  to  bring  forth  its 
fullness  of  sweetness  and  strength.  As  the  two  came  side 
by  aide  up  the  middle  of  the  village  street,  the  lawyer  and 
the  minister  stood  upon  the  steps  at  the  inn  door. 

"Is  it  a  case  of  love's  young  dream?"  asked  the  latter, 
significantly.  Mr.  Fordyce  laughed,  as  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  Scarcely.  They  've  been  companions — in  misfortune,  I 
had  almost  said — for  a  long  time,  and  it  is  natural  that  they 
should  feel  kindly  towards  each  other.  Miss  Bourhill 
Graham  must  needs  aim  a  little  higher.  I  like  the  young 
fellow,  however.  There's  an  honesty  of  purpose  and  a  fear- 
less individuality  about  him  which  refreshes  one.  Odd, 
is  n't  it,  to  find  two  such  gems  in  such  a  place?"  . 

"  Eather ;  but  I  do  n't  agree  with  all  you  say,"  replied  the 
minister;  "and  I'll  watch  with  interest  the  development  of 
Miss  Graham's  history.  If  that  determined-looking  youth 
does  n't  have  a  hand  in  it  I  've  made  a  huge  mistake, 
that 'sail." 

Mr.  Fordyce  had  made  his  plans  for  the  day,  and  ar- 
ranged with  his  wife  to  bring  the  carriage  to  Colquhoun 
Street  at  five  o'clock.  Gladys  had  been  made  acquainted 
with  this  arrangement,  and  acquiesced  in  it.  It  was  about 
four  o'clock  when  they  returned  to  the  empty  house,  which 


HER  INHERITANCE.  123 

looked  more  cheerless  than  usual,  after  the  beauty  and  fresh- 
ness of  the  country. 

"  .N"ow,  my  dear,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  we  must  have  a  little 
talk  before  Mrs.  Fordyce  comes.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say 
to  you.  You  remember  you  would  not  allow  me  to  speak  to 
you  about  business  affairs  until  all  was  over." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Gladys,  and  seated  herself  obediently, 
but  without  betraying  the  slightest  interest  or  anticipation. 

"  I  shall  be  as  brief  and  simple  as  possible,"  he  continued. 
"  I  told  you  that  you  need  have  no  anxiety  about  your 
future,  that  it  was  assured  by  your  uncle's  will.  You  were 
not  aware,  I  suppose,  that  he  died  a  rich  man  ?" 

"  No;  I  have  heard  people  call  him  rich,  but  I  never  be- 
lieved it.  He  spoke  and  acted  always  as  if  he  were  very 
poor." 

"  That  is  the  policy  of  many  who  have  earned  money 
hardly,  and  are  loath  to  spend  it.  Well,  it  is  you  who  will 
reap  the  benefit  of  his  economy.  About  six  months  ago 
your  uncle  called  upon  me  at  my  office  for  the  first  time  in 
connection  with  the  purchase  of  a  small  residential  estate  in 
Ayrshire.  He  wished  to  buy  it,  and  did  so — at  a  bargain,  for 
there  were  few  offers  for  it.  That  estate  was  Bourhill,  and 
it  was  for  you  it  was  bought.  You  are  absolutely  its  owner 
to-day." 

"  i — owner  of  Bourhill?"  she  repeated  slowly,  and  as  if  she 
did  not  comprehend.  "  I  owner  of  Bourhill?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  young  lady.  I  congratulate  you  not  only 
as  mistress  of  Bourhill,  but  also  as  mistress  of  what,  to  you, 
must  seem  a  large  fortune.  Your  uncle  has  left  you  Bour- 
hill and  the  sum  often  thousand  pounds." 

She  received  this  announcement  in  silence,  but  all  the 
color  left  her  face. 

"  O,"  she  cried  at  length,  in  a  voice  sharp  with  pain, 
"  how  wrong,  how  hard  !  To  live  here  in  such  poverty,  to 
be  so  hard  on  others,  to  act  a  lie;  it  was  that,  Mr.  Fordyce. 
O,  my  poor  uncle !" 


124  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Her  distress  was  keen.  It  showed  itself  in  her  heaving 
breast,  her  saddened  e_ye,  her  drooping  lips.  She  could  not 
realize  her  own  great  fortune;  she  could  only  think  of  what 
it  had  cost.  The  lawyer  was  deeply  moved,  and  yet  not  sur- 
prised. It  was  natural  that  a  nature  so  fine,  so  conscien- 
tious, and  so  true  should  see  at  once  the  terrible  injustice  of 
it  all. 

"  My  dear,  I  must  warn  you  not  to  dwell  on  the  morbid 
side.  We  must  admit  that  it  was  a  great  pity,  a  very  great 
pity,  that  your  poor  uncle  did  not  realize  the  responsibility 
of  wealth,  did  not  even  take  some  comfort  for  himself  from 
it.  But  I  may  tell  you  it  was  a  great,  an  inexpressible  joy  to 
him  to  leave  it  in  your  hands.  I  daresay  he  felt  assured,  as 
I  do,  that,  though  so  young,  you  Avould  know  how  to  use  it 
wisely." 

It  was  the  right  cord  to  touch.  The  color  leaped  back  to 
her  cheek,  the  light  to  her  eyes,  her  whole  manner  changed. 

«O,  I  will— I  will!  God  will  help  me.  I  will  do  the 
work — his  work.  If  only  he  had  told  me  how  he  wished 
it  done." 

"  I  have  a  letter  for  you.  written  by  his  own  hand  the  day 
he  died.  But  it  is  not  here.  I  will  bring  it  when  I  come 
from  my  office  at  night ;  and  meanwhile,  my  dear,  I  would 
suggest  that  you  should  get  ready  to  go.  My  wife  will  be 
here  very  shortly." 

Immediately  thought  was  diverted  into  another  channel, 
and  a  great  wistfulness  stole  over  her  face. 

"And  what,"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "  what  will  become 
of  Walter?" 

"  Has  he  not  told  you  what  his  future  is  likely  to  be?" 

"  No,  he  has  told  me  nothing." 

"  Your  uncle  has  left  him  this  business  to  make  of  it  what 
he  likes,  and  five  hundred  pounds  to  help  him  to  carry  it  on. 
It  is  a  very  good  lift  for  a  friendless  young  fellow — a  waif  of 
the  streets." 

"  He  is  not  a  waif  of  the  streets,"  cried  Gladys,  hotly. 


HER  INHERITANCE.  125 

<;  He  has  a  homo;  not  so  happy  as  it  might  be,  perhaps,  but 
it  is  a  home.  It  is  this  dreadful  drink  which  ruins  every- 
thing it  touches  which  has  destroyed  Walter's  home.  I  am 
so  glad  for  him.  He  will  get  on  so  quickly  now,  only  he  will 
be  so  dreadfully  lonely.  I  must  come  and  see  him.  very, 
very  often." 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not  wish  3*011  to  turn  your  back  on  your 
old  friend;  but  it  might  be  better  for  you  both,  but  more 
especially  for  him,  if  you  let  things  take  their  course.  Your 
life  must  be  very  different  henceforth." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Gladys,  quite  calmly. 
"  Please  to  explain." 

Xot  an  easy  task  for  Mr.  Fordyce,  with  these  large,  sor- 
rowful, half-indignant  eyes  fixed  so  questioningly  on  his 
face,  but  he  did  his  best. 

"1  mean,  my  dear,  that  for  you,  as  Miss  Graham  of 
Bourhill,  a  new  life  is  opening  up — a  life  in  which  it  will  bo 
quite  wise  to  forget  the  past.  Your  life'  here,  I  should 
think,"  he  added,  with  a  significant  glance  around  the  place, 
-;  has  not  held  much  in  it  worth  remembering.  It  will  pass 
from  you  like  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  the  many  new  interests 
which  will  encompass  you  now." 

It  was  the  wisdom  of  the  world,  not  harshly  nor  ungently 
conveyed,  but  it  sounded  cruel  in  the  girl's  ears.  She  rose 
to  her  .feet,  and  somewhat  wearily  shook  her  head. 

"  You  do  not  know,  3*011  can  not  understand,"  she  said, 
faintl3*.  "  I  can  never  forget  this  place.  I  pray  I  ma3T  never 
Avish  to  forget  it.  If  3*011  will  excuse  me,  I  shall  get  read\* 
now,  so  as  not  to  keep  Mrs.  Fordyce  waiting  when  she 
comes." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


HE  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  they  stood  face 
to  face,  the  young  man  and  the  maiden,  in  the 
little  office  up-stairs  —  face  to  face,  to  say  farewell. 
"I  am  quite  ready,  Walter,"  Gladys  said,  in 
a  still,  quiet  voice.     "I  am  going  away." 
'•Are  you?     Well,  good-bye." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  His  face  was  pale,  but  his  mouth 
was  set  like  iron,  and  these  apparently  indifferent  words 
seemed  to  force  themselves  from  between  his  teeth.  Sign  of 
emotion  or  sorrow  he  exhibited  none  ;  but  the  maiden,  who 
understood  and  who  loved  him  —  yes,  who  loved  him  —  was 
not  in  the  least  deceived. 

"  Have  you  nothing  else  to  say  than  that,  Walter?  It  is 
very  little,  when  I  am  going  away,"  she  said,  wistfully. 

"  No,"  he  replied  in  the  same  steady,  even  tone,  "  nothing. 

You  had  better  not  keep  them  waiting,  these  grand  people, 

any  longer.     They  are  not  used  to  it.  and  they  do  n't  like  it." 

"Let  them  wait,  and  if  they  don't  like  it  they  can  go 

away,"  she  answered,  with  unwonted  sharpness.     "  I  want 

to  say,  Walter,  that  if  I  could  have  staid  here,  I  would.     T 

would  rather  be  here  than  anywhere.     Tt  once  seemed  very 

126 


FAREWELL.  127 

dreadful  to  me,  but  now  I  love  it.  But  though  I  am  going 
away  I  will  come  to  see  you,  very  often,  very  often  indeed." 

"Don't  come,"  he.  answered,  sharply.  "Don't  come 
at  all." 

A  vague  terror  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  her  mouth 
trembled. 

"  !Now  you  are  unkind,  Walter — unkind  and  unreasonable. 
But  men  are  often  unreasonable,  so  I  will  forgive  you.  If  I 
may  not  come  here,  will  you  promise  to  come  to  Bellair's 
Crescent  and  see  me?" 

Then  Walter  flung  up  his  head  and  laughed — that  laugh 
which  always  stabbed  Gladys. 

"  To  have  the  door  slammed  in  my  face  by  a  footman  or 
a  smart  servant;  no,  thank  you." 

"Very  well,  good-bye.  If  you  cast  me  off,  Walter,  I 
can't  help  it.  Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you.  I  hope  I  shall 
see  you  sometimes ;  and  if  not,  I  shall  try  to  bear  it,  only  it 
is  very  hard." 

She  was  a  woman  in  keenness  of  feeling — a  very  child  in 
guilelessuess.  She  could  not  hide  her  pain.  Then  Walter, 
feeling  it  all  so  keenly,  and  hating  himself  with  a  mortal 
hatred  for  his  savage  candor,  condescended  to  make  an 
explanation. 

"In  a  week,"  he  began,  "you  will  view  eveiything  in  a 
different  light.  You  are  going  away  to  be  a  great  lady,  and 
you  '11  soon  find  that  you  want  nothing  so  badly  in  this 
world  as  to  forget  that  you  ever  knew  this  place  or  me.  It 
will  be  far  better  to  understand  and  make  up  my  mind  to  it 
at  the  very  beginning.  Perhaps  some  day  it  wilt  be  differ- 
ent; but,  in  the  meantime,  I  know  I  am  right,  and  you  '11 
soon  be  convinced  of  it,  too,  and  perhaps  thank  me  for  it." 

"If  that  is  what  you  think  of  me,  Walter,  it  will  indeed 
be  better  as  you  say.  Good  bye." 

She  scarcely  touched  his  hand,  nor  looked  at  him  as  she 
turned  away.  She  was  wounded  to  the  heart,  and  the  poor 
liid,  putting  a  fearful  curb  upon  himself,  suffered  her  to  leave 


1 28  THE  G  UINEA  STAMP. 

him.  He  did  not  even  go  down  to  the  door  to  see  the  car- 
riage leave,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  rattle  of  wheels  across 
the  stony  street  fell  upon  his  ears  like  a  last  farewell.  Then, 
there  being  none  to  witness  his  weakness,  he  laid  his  head 
down  upon  the  battered  old  desk,  and  wept  as  he  had  not 
wept  since  his  childhood.  He  had  a  proud  spirit,  and  cir- 
cumstances had  made  him  morbidly  sensitive.  He  was  very 
young  to  indulge  in  a  man's  hopes  and  aspirations ;  but  age 
is  not  always  determined  by  years.  Already  he  had  dreamed 
his  dreams;  had  his  visions  of  a  glorious  future,  in  which  he 
should  build  up  a  home  for  himself.  Yet  not  for  himself 
alone — it  could  be  no  home  unless  light  was  given  to  it  by 
her  who  had  been  the  day-star  of  his  boyhood.  The  very 
loneliness  and  bitterness  of  his  experience  had  caused  his 
heart,  capable  of  a  strong  and  passionate  affection,  to  center 
with  greater  tenacity  upon  the  gentle  being  who  had  shown 
to  him  the  lovelier  side  of  nature  and  life,  and  had  awakened 
in  him  strivings  after  all  that  was  highest  and  best.  But 
this  morbid  sensitiveness,  which  is  the  curse  of  every  proud 
spirit,  and  turns  even  the  sweets  of  life  to  ashes  in  the 
mouth,  had  him  in  bitter  bondage.  He  lashed  himself  with 
it,  reminding  himself  constantly  of  his  origin  and  his  envi- 
ronment, and  magnifying  these  into  insuperable  barriers 
which  would  forever  stand  blankly  in  his  way.  Although 
common  sense  told  him  that  there  was  no  other  course  open 
to  Gladys  than  to  accept  the  kindness  offered  her  by  the 
lawyer  and  his  wife,  and  though  in  his  inmost  better  heart  he 
did  not  doubt  her,  it  pleased  his  harder  mood  to  regard  him- 
self as  being  despised  and  trampled  on.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain luxury  in  the  indulgence  which  afforded  him  a  melan- 
choly pain.  By  and  by,  however,  better  thoughts  came,  as 
they  always  will  if  we  give  them  the  chance  they  seek.  Out 
of  his  feai-ful  dejection  arose  a  manlier,  nobler  spirit,  which 
betrayed  itself  in  his  look  and  manner.  He  rose  from  the 
stool,  walked  twice  across  the  narrow  office  floor  out  to  the 
warehouse,  and  finally  down-stairs.  In  a  word,  he  took  an 


FAREWELL.  129 

inventory  of  the  whole  place,  and  it  suddenly  came  home  to 
him  with  a  new  accession  of  hope  and  strength  that  it  was 
his,  that  he  was  absolutely  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed,  and 
could  make  or  mar  it  as  he  willed.  It  was  not  a  stupendous 
heritage,  but  to  one  nameless  and  unknown  it  was  much. 
Xay,  it  was  his  opportunity — the  tide  in  his  affairs  which 
might  lead  him  on  to  fortune.  Wandering  the  length  and 
breadth  of  his  kingdom — only  a  drysalter's  warehouse,  but 
still  his  kingdom — hope  took  to  herself  white  wings  again, 
and,  fluttering  over  him,  built  for  him  many  a  castle  in  the 
air — castles  high  enough  to  reach  the  skies.  Then  and  there 
Walter  Hepburn  took  courage  and  began  to  face  his  life ;  laid 
his  plans,  which  had  for  its  reward  a  maiden's  smile  and  a 
maiden's  heart.  And  for  these  men  have  conquered  the 
Avorld  before,  and  will  again.  Love  still  rules,  and  will, 
thanks  be  to  God,  till  the  world  is  done. 

Meanwhile  Gladys,  all  unconscious  alike  of  his  deep  de- 
jection and  his  happier  mood,  sat  quite  silently  in  the  corner 
of  the  luxurious  carriage,  her  ej'es  dim  with  tears.  Her 
kind  friend,  noticing  that  she  was  moved,  left  her  in  peace. 
Her  sympathy  was  true,  and  could  be  quiet;  and  that 
is  much. 

"Suppose  you  sit  up  and  look  out,  my  dear,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  We  are  crossing  Kelvin  Bridge.  Have  you  been  as 
far  west  before?'1 

Gladys  sat  up  obediently,  and  looked  from  the  carriage 
window  upon  the  river  tumbling  between  it  banks. 

"Is  this  Glasgow?"  she  asked,  wondering  to  see  the  trees 
waving  greenly  in  the  gentle  April  breeze. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  of  coui*se ;  and  we  are  almost  home.  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  glad,  you  look  so  tired,"  said  Mrs.  For- 
dyce,  kindly.  "Never  mind,  you  shall  have  a  cup  of  tea  im- 
mediately, and  then  you  shall  lie  down  and  sleep  as  long  as 
you  like." 

"  O,  I  never  sleep  in  the  daytime,  thank  you,"  said  Gladys ; 
and  as  the  carriage  swept  along  a  handsome  terrace  and  into 

9 


130  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Bellair's  Crescent,  where  the  gardens  were  green  with  all  the 
beauty  of  earliest  summer,  her  face  visibly  brightened. 

"  It  is  quite  like  the  country,"  she  said.  "  I  can  not  be- 
lieve it  is  Glasgow." 

"  Sometimes  we  feel  it  dingy  enough,  my  love.  We  are 
talking  of  the  coast  already,  but  perhaps  we  shall  fall  in 
love  with  the  Crescent  a  second  time  through  you.  Eh,  my 
dear?"  She  said,  with  a  nod :  ."  Well,  here  we  are." 

The  carriage  drew  up  before  the  steps  of  a  handsome 
house,  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  dainty  maid  ran  down  to 
take  the  wraps.  Gladys  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  thought 
of  Walter.  Well,  it  was  a  great  change.  Gladys  had  an 
eye  for  the  beautiful,  and  the  arrangement  of  the  hall,  with 
its  soft  rugs,  carved  furniture,  and  green  plants,  with  gleams 
of  statuary  here  and  there,  rested  and  delighted  her. 

"We '11  just  go  to  the  drawing-room  at  once.  My  girls 
will  be  out  of  all  patience  for  tea/'  said  Mrs.  Fordyce.  "  Nay, 
my  dear,  do  n't  shrink.  I  assure  you  they  are  happy,  kind- 
hearted  girls,  just  like  yourself." 

Gladys  long  remembered  her  first  introduction  to  the 
brighter  side  of  life.  She  followed  Mrs.  Fordyce  somewhat 
timidly  into  a  large  and  handsome  room,  and  saw  at  the 
farther  end,  near  the  fire-place,  a  dainty  tea-table  spread, 
and  a  young  girl  in  a  blue  serge  gown  cutting  a  cake  into  a 
silver  basket.  Another  knelt  at  the  fire.  Gladys  was  struck 
by  the  exceeding  grace  of  her  attitude,  though  she  could 
not  see  her  face. 

"  My  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  quickly,  "  here  we  are. 
I  hope  tea  is  ready  We  are  quite  ready  for  it." 

"  It  has  been  up  an  age,  mamma ;  Mina  and  I  were  think- 
ing to  ring  for  some  fresh  tea.  Is  this  Miss  Graham?" 

It  was  the  one  who  had  been  kneeling  by  the  fire  who 
spoke,  and  she  came  forward  frankly  and  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  though  her  eyes  keenly  noted  every  detail  of  the 
stranger's  appearance  and  attire. 


FAREWELL.  131 

"  This  is  Clara,  my  elder  daughter,  my  dear,  and  this  is 
Mina.  Is  Leonard  not  home?1' 

''•  Yes,  but  he  won't  come  up.  Leonard  is  our  brother," 
Clara  explained  to  Gladys.  "Bather  a  spoiled  boy,  and  he 
is  mortally  afraid  of  new  girls,  as  he  calls  them.  But  you 
will  see  him  at  dinnei1." 

In  spite  of  a  natural  stateliness  of  look  and  manner,  Clara 
had  a  kind  way  with  her.  She  took  off  their  guest's  cloak 
and  drew  a  comfortable  chair  forward  to  the  tea-table,  while 
her  sister  made  out  the  tea. 

"Where  's  papa?  Did  he  not  come  with  you?"  she  asked 
her  mother,  leaving  Gladys  moment  to  herself. 

"Xo,  he  went  off  at  St.  Vincent  Street.  He  has  been 
away  from  business  all  day,  you  know/' 

"  0  yes.  This  has  been  a  sad  day  for  you,"  said  Clara, 
sympathetically,  turning  to  Gladys.  ''•  Mamma  has  told  us 
how  lonely  you  are;  but  we  shall  try  to  cheer  you.  Won't 
we,  Mina?" 

"  Suppose  you  begin  by  giving  her  some  tea,"  said  Mrs. 
Fordyce.  "  Then  she  must  have  a  little  rest.  She  has  very 
long  cared  for  others.  She  must  have  a  taste  of  being  cared 
for  now." 

Gladys  could  not  speak  a  word.  She  felt  at  home.  A 
vague,  delicious  sense  of  rest  stole  over  her  as  she  listened  to 
these  kind  words,  and  felt  the  subtile,  beautiful  influences 
of  the  place  about  her.  It  was  only  a  pleasant  family  room, 
which  taste  and  wealth  had  appointed  and  adorned;  but  it 
seemed  like  a  king's  palace  to  the  girl,  who  had  long  walked 
in  the  darker  places  of  the  earth.  Seeing  her  thus  moved, 
mother  and  daughters  talked  to  each  other,  discussing  the 
pleasant  gossip  of  the  day,  which  always  seems  to  gather 
round  the  table  at  five-o'clock  tea. 

"Now  Clara,  you  will  take  Miss  Graham  up-stairs.  I 
think  you  must  allow  us  to  call  you  Gladys,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Fordyce.  "  I  am  going  to  leave  you  in  charge  of  Clara. 


132  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

When  you  know  us  better  you  will  find  out  that  it  takes 
Mina  all  her  time  to  take  charge  of  herself." 

Mina  shook  her  finger  at  her  mother,  and  a  slight  blush 
rose  to  her  happy  face. 

"Too  bad,  mamma,  to  prejudice  Miss  Graham  against 
me.  The  difference  between  my  sister  and  me,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Gladys,  "  is  that  Clara  is  always  proper  and  con- 
ventional, and  I  am  the  reverse.  You  can  never  catch  her 
unawares,  or  in  an  untidy  gown.  She  is  always  just  as 
immaculate  as  you  see  her  now — while  I  am — well  just  as 
the  spirit  moves  me."  She  swept  a  little  mocking  courtesy  to 
her  sister,  who  only  smiled  and  shook  her  head,  then  taking 
Gladys  by  the  arm,  led  her  from  the  drawing-room. 

"You  must  not  mind  Mina.  She  often  speaks  without 
thinking;  but  she  never  wishes  to  hurt  any  one,"  she  said. 
"  We  have  both  been  so  sorry  for  you  since  papa  told  us 
about  you,  and  we  hope  you  will  feel  happy  and  at  home 
with  us  here." 

"O,  I  am  sure  I  shall,  you  are  all  so  kind,"  cried  Gladys, 
impulsively.  It  was  natural  that  she  should  exaggerate  any 
little  courtesy  or  kindness  shown  to  her.  She  had  known  so 
little  of  it  in  her  life.  m 

"It  is  such  a  romance!  To  think  you  are  an  heiress, 
and  that  beautiful  Bourhill  is  all  your  own,"  continued  Clara, 

"  Do  you  know  it?"  interrupted  Gladys,  with  more  inter- 
est than  she  had  yet  betrayed. 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  there.  We  have  a  house  at  Troon, 
and  of  course  when  we  are  there  we  drive  a  good  deal.  Papa 
pointed  it  out  to  us  one  day,  and  said  it  was  sad  to  see  it 
going  to  decay.  We  had  no  idea  then  that  we  should  ever 
know  you.  This  is  your  room.  It  is  quite  close  to  Mina's 
and  mine.  See,  the  river  is  just  before  the  windows.  I  al- 
ways think  the  Kelvin  looks  so  pretty  from  here,  because 
one  can  not  see  its  impurity. 

"  It  is  beautiful ;  a  great  change  for  me,"  said  Gladys, 
dreamily,  as  her  eyes  roamed  round  the  spacious  and  elegant 


FAREWELL.  133 

guest-chamber.  '-How  pleasant  it  must  be  always  to  live 
amqng  so  many  beautiful  things!  I  have  loved  them  all 
my  life;  but  I  have  seen > so  few  since  I  came  from  the  fen 
country  with  my  uncle." 

"  It  was  very  strange  that  he,  so  rich,  should  keep  you  in 
that  wretched  place,''  said  Clara.  "  How  much  better  had  he 
shared  it  all  with  you  while  he  lived !" 

"  Yes,  but  I  think  he  was  happier  as  it  was ;  and  it  pleased 
him  at  the  end,  I  know,  to  think  that  he  had  given  me  Bour- 
hill." 

"  I  am  sure  it  did.  Well,  I  shall  go  now,  dear,  and  leave 
you  to  unpack.  You  will  find  the  wardrobe  and  all  the 
drawers  empty.  Mamma  will  be  coming  to  you  immedi- 
ately, likely." 

With  a  nod  and  a  smile  Clara  took  herself  off  to  the 
drawing-room  again. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Graham,  of  Bourhill?"  asked 
Mina,  with  her  mouth  full  of  cake. 

"  Quite  to  the  manner  born.     Do  n't  you  think  so?" 

"  Quite ;  and  is  n't  she  lovely  ?  Wait  till  mamma  has  taken 
her  to  Eedfern.  and  then  you  and  I  may  retire,  my  dear — we 
shall  be  eclipsed." 

"  If  so,  let  us  be  resigned.  One  thing  I  know — you  do  n't 
believe  in  presentiments,  of  course,  you  matter-of-fact  young 
person — but  I  feel  that  she  is  to  be  mixed  up  with  us  in  some 
mysterious  way,  and  that  some  day,  perhaps,  we  may  wish 
we  had  never  seen  Miss  Graham,  of  Bourhill." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE 

|OW  Gladys  had  her  opportunity  of  seeing  the 
beautiful  side  of  life.  Her  taste,  being  naturally 
refined  and  fastidious,  found  a  peculiar  satisfac- 
tion in  the  beauty  of  her  surroundings.  It  was 
a  very  real  pleasure  to  her  to  tread  upon  soft 
carpets,  breathe  a  pure  air,  only  sweetened  by  the  breath  of 
flowers,  rest  her  eyes  with  delicate  combinations  of  color  and 
the  treasures  of  art  to  be  found  in  the  lawyer's  sumptuous 
house.  Never  had  she  moi*e  strikingly  betrayed  her  special 
gift,  of  which  Abel  Graham  had  spoken  on  his  death-bed, 
"  ability  to  adapt  herself  to  any  surroundings ;"  she  seemed, 
indeed,  as  Mina  Fordyce  had  said,  "to  the  manner  born." 

She  endeared  herself  at  once  by  her  gentleness  of  manner  to 
every  inmate  of  the  house;  and  very  speedily  conquered  the 
boy  Leonard's  aversion  to  "  new  girls."  In  less  than  a  week 
they  were  chums,  ami  she  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  his  den 
in  the  attic,  where  he  contrived  all  sorts  of  wonderful 
things,  devoting  more  time  to  them  than  to  his  legitimate 
lessons,  which  his  soul  abhorred.  But  though  she  was  in- 
variably cheerful,  ever  ready  to  share  and  sympathize  with 
134 


THE  WEST  END.  135 

till  the  varied  interests  of  the  house,  there  was  a  stillness  of 
manner,  a  "  dreamy  far-offness,"  as  Mina  expressed  it,  which 
indicated  that  sometimes  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

The  three  girls  were  sitting  round  the  drawing-room  fire 
one  wet,  boisterous  afternoon,  chatting  cozily,  and  waiting 
for  tea  to  come  up.  Between  Clara  and  Gladys  there  seemed 
to  be  a  peculiar  understanding;  though  Mr.  Fordyce's  elder 
daughter  was  not  the  favorite  of  the  family.  Her  manner 
was  too  stiff,  and  she  had  a  knack  at  times  of  saying  rather 
sharp,  disagreeable  things.  But  not  to  Gladys  Graham.  In 
these  few  days  they  had  become  united  in  the  bonds  of  a  love 
which  was  to  stand  all  tests.  Clara  was  sitting  on  a  low 
chair,  Gladys  kneeling  by  her  side,  with  her  arm  on  her 
knee.  So  sitting,  they  presented  a  contrast,  each  a  fine  foil 
to  the  other.  The  stately,  dark  beauty  of  Clara  set  off  the 
fairer  loveliness  of  the  younger  girl ;  neither  suffered  by  the 
contrast.  These  days  of  peace  and  restful,  luxurious  living 
had  robbed  Gladys  of  her  Avearied  listlessness,  had  given  to 
her  delicate  cheek  a  bloom  long  absent  from  it.  Her  simple 
morning-gown,  made  by  a  fashionable  modiste  who  had  de- 
lighted to  study  her  fair  model,  seemed  part  of  herself.  She 
was  a  striking  and  lovely  girl ;  of  a  higher  type  than  the 
two  beside  her. 

"0,  girls!"  cried  Mina,  with  a  yawn,  and  tossing  back 
her  brown,  unruly  locks  with  an  impatient  gesture,  "isn't 
it  slow?  Can't  3^011  wake  up?  You  have  n't  spoken  a  word 
for  half  an  hour." 

"Do  you  never  want  to  be  quiet,  Mina?"  asked  Gladys, 
with  the  gleam  of  an  amused  smile. 

"No,  never.  I'm  not  one  of  your  pensive  maidens. 
One  silent  member  in  a  family  is  enough,  or  it  would  stag- 
nate. Clara  sustains  the  dignity,  I  the  life  of  the  house,  my 
dear.  O,  I  wish  somebody  would  come  in  !  I  guess  half  a 
score  of  idle  young  women  in  the  three  houses  of  this  Cres- 
cent are  consumed  with  the  same  desire.  But  nobody  ever 
does  come  in,  by  any  chance,  when  you  want  them.  When 


136  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

you  do  n't,  then  they  come  in  in  shoals.  I  say,  Clara,  is  n't  it 
ages  since  we  saw  any  of  them  from  Pollockshields?" 

"  Yes ;  but  you  know  we  ought  to  have  gone  to  ask  for 
Aunt  Margaret  long  ago." 

"  I  suppose  so.  We  do  n't  love  our  aunt,  Gladys.  It 's 
the  misfortune  of  many  not  to  love  their  relations.  Can  you 
explain  that  mystery?" 

"  Perhaps  they  are  not  very  lovable,"  suggested  Gladys, 
smiling. 

"  That 's  it  exactly.  Aunt  Margaret  is —  Well,  you  '11 
see  her  some  day,  and  then  you  '11  admit  that,  if  she  possesses 
lovable  qualities,  she  does  n't  wear  them  every  day.  They 
are  so  rich,  so  odiously  rich,  that  you  never  can  forget  it. 
She  does  n't  allow  you  to.  And  Julia  is  about  as  insuffer- 
able." 

"  Eeally,  Mina,  you  should  not  speak  so  strongly.  You 
know  papa  and  mamma  would  n't  like  it,"  protested  Clara, 
mildly;  but  Mina  only  laughed. 

"  It  is  such  a  relief,  on  a  day  like  this,  to  c  go  for  '  some 
one,  as  Len  would  say,  and  why  not  for  one's  relations  ?  It 's 
their  chief  use.  And  yon  know  Julia  Fordyce  has  more  airs 
than  a  duchess.  George  is  rather  better,  and  he  is  so  di- 
vinely handsome  that  you  can  't  remember  that  he  has  a 
single  fault." 

Was  it  the  firelight,  or  did  the  color  heighten  rapidly  in 
Clara's  cheek  ? 

"  Such  nonsense  you  talk,  Mina,"  she  said,  hastily. 

"  It  is  n't  nonsense  at  all.  Have  we  never  exhibited  the 
photograph  of  our  Adonis,  Gladys?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  answered  Gladys,  with  a  smile. 
"  Suppose  you  let  me  see  it  now  ?" 

"Of  course;  that  was  an  unpardonable  oversight  which 
his  lordship  would  never  forgive.  He  is  frightfully  con- 
ceited, as  most  handsome  men  unfortunately  are.  It  is  n't 
their  fault,  poor  fellows;  it's  the  girls  who  spoil  them.  Here 
lie  is!" 


THE  WEST  END.  137 

She  brought  a  silver  frame  from  a  cabinet,  and,  with  an 
absurd  assumption  of  devotion,  dropped  a  kiss  on  it  before 
she  gave  it  to  Gladys.  Gladys  sat  up,  and  holding  the  pho- 
tograph up  between  the  light,  looked  at  it  earnestly.  It  was 
the  portrait  of  a  man  in  hunting  dress  standing  by  his  horse, 
and  certainly  no  fault  could  be  found  with  his  appearance. 
His  figure  was  a  model  of  manly  grace,  and  his  face  remark- 
ably handsome,  so  far  as  fine  features  can  render  handsome 
a  human  face.  Yet  there  was  a- something,  it  might  be  only 
a  too  conscious  idea  of  his  own  attractions,  which  betrayed 
itself  in  his  expression,  and  in  the  eyes  of  Gladys  detracted 
from  its  charm. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  picture,"  she  said,  innocently.  "  The  horse 
is  a  lovely  creature." 

Then  Mina  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and  laughed 
till  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  a  proceeding  which  ut- 
terly perplexed  Gladys. 

«O,  Clara,  isn't  that  lovely?  If  I  don't  tell  George 
Fordyce  that  the  first  time  I  see  him.  It  'lido  him  all  the 
good  in  the  world.  Only,  Gladys,  he  will  never  forgive 
you." 

"  Why?   I  have  not  said  anything  against  him." 

"No,  you  have  simply  ignored  him,  and  that  is  an  un- 
pardonable offense  against  my  lord.  You  must  let  me  tell 
him,  Gladys.  It  is  really  my  duty  to  tell  him,  and  we 
should  always  do  one's  duty  by  one's  relations,  should  we 
not?" 

"I  am  sure  I  do  n't  mind  in  the  least  if  you  do  tell  him," 
replied  Gladys,  serenely.  "  Do  you  think  I  said  anything 
very  dreadful,  Clara?" 

"  Not  1 1  Never  mind  Mina,  dear.  You  should  be  learn- 
ing not  to  mind  anything  she  says." 

"  There's  the  bell ;  that's  mother,  I  hope.  We  never  miss 
mother  more  than  at  tea-time,"  said  Mina,  jumping  up.  Love 
for  her  mother  was  the  passion  of  her  soul.  It  shone  in  her 
face,  and  betrayed  itself  in  a  hundred  little  attentions  which 


138  TEE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

touched  Gladys  inexpressibly.  Clara  was  always  more  re- 
served, but  though  her  feelings  found  slower  expression, 
they  were  not  less  deep  and  keen.  And  though  Gladys  felt  at 
home  and  happy  with  every  member  of  that  singularly 
united  house-hold,  it  was  to  Clara,  who  was  so  seldom  the 
favorite  outside,  that  her  heart  went  out  in  love. 

"It  is  not  mother;  it's  callers,  I  do  believe,"  cried  Mina, 
giving  her  hair  a  tug  before  the  mirror,  and  shaking  out  her 
skirts,  while  her  face  brightened  with  expectation. 

"  Mr.  and  Miss  Fordyce." 

Clara  rose  and  went  hastily  forward  to  receive  her  cousins, 
while  the  irrepressible  Mina  strove  to  hide  her  laughter, 
though  her  eyes  danced  in  the  most  suspicious  manner.  It 
was  with  rather  more  than  ordinary  interest  that  Gladys  re- 
garded the  new-comers.  They  were  certainly  a  handsome 
pair;  and  so  closely  resembling  each  other  that  their  rela- 
tionship was  at  once  apparent. 

"  To  what  do  we  owe  this  unexpected  felicity?"  inquired 
Mina,  banteringly.  "  On  such  a  day,  too." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  we  quite  expected  to  see  you  in  the  house 
we  have  just  left,"  said  Julia,  a  little  stiffly. 

"  Where,  where  ?" 

"  Evelyn  Stuart's.  Have  you  forgotten  this  is  her  first 
reception-day?" 

"  So  it  is,  and  we  forgot  all  about  it.  Clara,  whatever 
shall  we  do?  Was  there  a  crowd?" 

"  Yes,  an  awful  crowd." 

While  answering  Mina,  Miss  Julia  inclined  her  head  in 
recognition  of  Gladys,  to  whom  Clara  introduced  her.  The 
slightest  possible  surprise  betrayed  itself  in  the  uplifting  of 
her  straight  brows,  as  her  keen,  flashing  eyes  took  in  every 
detail  of  the  girl's  appearance.  Needless  to  say,  the  new  in- 
mate of  the  lawyer's  household  had  been  freely  discussed  by 
the  Pollockshields  Fordyces,  and  it  was  in  reality  curiosity 
to  see  her  which  had  brought  them  to  Bellair's  Crescent  that 
afternoon. 


THE  WEST  END.  139 

"I  should  just  say  it  was  a  crowd,"  added  George,  giving 
his  immaculate  mustache  a  pull.  <!I  was  sorry  for  Stuart, 
poor  beggar.  Eeally,  though  a  fellow  marries,  he  should  not 
be  subjected  to  an  ordeal  like  yon.  I  do  n't  see  anything  to 
hinder  a  fellow's  wife  from  receiving  folks  herself.  It 's  an 
awful  bore  on  a  fellow,  you  know." 

He  spoke  languidly,  and  all  the  time  from  under  his 
drooping  lids  surveyed  the  slender  figure  and  fair  face  of 
Gladys.  She  was  so  different  from  the  brilliant  and  showy 
young  ladies  he  met  in  the  society  they  moved  in  that  he 
was  filled  with  a  secret  admiration. 

"  So  the  unfortunate  young  woman  who  marries  you, 
George,  may  know  what  to  expect.  Do  you  hear  that,  girls  ? 
Be  warned  in  time,"  cried  Mina,  "  Won't  you  take  off  your 
cloak,  Julia,  and  stay  a  little?  Mother  and  tea  will  be  here 
directly." 

"I  dare  say  we  have  half  an  hour — have  we,  George? 
You  are  not  going  back  to  the  mill,  are  you?" 

"  Not  I ;  my  nose  has  been  pretty  much  at  the  grind- 
stone for  the  last  month.  And  now,  girls,  what 's  the  best 
of  your  news?  "We  're  waiting  to  be  entertained.  How  do 
you  like  the  West  End  of  Glasgow,  Miss  Graham?" 

"Very  much,  thank  you,"  answered  Gladys,  and  some- 
how she  could  not  help  speaking  distantly.  There  was  some- 
thing about  the  young  man  she  did  not  like.  Had  she 
looked  at  Clara  just  then  she  would  have  seen  her  eyes  filled 
with  a  lovely  wavering  light,  while  a  half-trembling  con- 
sciousness was  infused  into  her  whole  appearance.  These 
signs  to  the  observant  are  not  difficult  to  read.  Clara  loved 
her  handsome  cousin,  and  unfortunately  he  was  not  blind  to 
the  fact. 

"  We  are  going  to  Troon  first  week  in  May,  Julia,"  she 
said,  quickly.  "  Has  Aunt  Margaret  thought  or  spoken  of 
your  going  yet?" 

"She  has  spoken  of  it,  but  we  haven't  encouraged  it," 
replied  Julia,  languidly,  as  she  drew  off  one  of  her  perfectly 


140  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

fitting  gloves,  and  displayed  a  long,  firm,  white  liand,  spark- 
ling with  diamonds.  "  I  know  she  has  written  to  the  house- 
keeper to  have  Seaview  aired ;  but  I  suppose  it  depends  on 
the  weather." 

"If  you  are  all  going  down,  it  would  n't  be  half  bad, 
Julia.  We  must  see  what  the  Mater  says.  Does  Miss  Gra- 
ham go  with  you?" 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Clara,  with  a  smiling  glance  at 
Gladys,  She  replied  by  an  answering  smile,  so  swTift  and 
lovely  that  George  Fordyce  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden 
access  of  admiration.  Gladys  shrank  just  a  little  under  the 
continued  persistence  of  his  gaze;  and  when  he  saw  it,  it 
added  a  new  zest  to  his  interest  in  her.  He  was  accustomed 
to  find  his  admiration  or  attention  always  acceptable  to  the 
young  ladies  of  his  acquaintance,  and  the  demeanor  of  Gladys 
was  at  once  new  and  interesting  to  him.  He  determined  to 
cultivate  her  acquaintance,  and  to  awaken  that  fair,  statu- 
esque maiden  into  life. 

Just  tlien  tea  came  up,  and,  rising  lazily,  he  began  to  make 
himself  useful  to  his  cousin  Clara,  murmuring  some  nonsense 
to  her  over  the  tea-table,  which  deepened  the  lovely  light  in 
her  eyes.  He  enjoyed  seeing  the  delicate  color  deepening  in 
her  face,  and  excused  himself  for  bringing  it  there,  on  the 
ground  of  cousinship.  But  when  he  carried  her  cup  to 
Gladys,  he  remained  by  her  side,  while  Julia  entertained  the 
other  two  with  a  description  of  the  bride's  drawing-room 
and  reception -gown. 

"  It 's  an  awful  romance,  Miss  Graham ;  upon  my  word  it 
is,"  began  George,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  others,  and 
looking  down  most  impressively  into  the  girl's  face;  "your 
story  I  mean,  of  course.  Uncle  Tom  has  told  us  how  you, 
the  heiress  of  Bourhill,  have  lived  in  the  slums — positively 
the  slums,  wasn't  it?'' 

!Now,  though  his  words  were  not  particularly  well  chosen 
or  in  good  taste,  his  manner  was  so  impressively  sympa- 
thetic that  Gladys  felt  insensibly  influenced  by  it.  And  he 


THE  WEST  END.  141 

was  very  handsome,  and  It  was  quite  pleasant  to  have 
him  standing  there,  looking  as  if  there  was  nobody  in  the 
world  half  so  interesting  to  him  as  herself.  For  the  very 
first  time  in  her  life  Gladys  felt  the  subtle  charm  of  flattery 
steal  into  her  soul. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  call  it  the  slums,"  she  answered. 
"  My  uncle  lived  in  Colquhoun  Street." 

"  Do  n't  know  it,  but  I  guess  it  was  bad  enough — and  for 
you,  too,  who  look  fit  for  a  palace.  And  did  you  live  there 
all  alone  with  the  old  miser?" 

"  Do  n't  call  him  that,  please.  He  was  very  kind  to  me, 
and  I  can  not  bear  to  hear  him  hardly  spoken  of,"  she  said, 
quickly.  "  There  Avere  three  of  us,  and  we  were  very  happy, 
though  the  place  was  so  small  and  poor." 

"Who  was  the  third?" 

He  managed  to  convey  into  his  tone  just  sufficient  ag- 
gressiveness as  to  suggest  that  he  resented  the  idea  of  a 
third  person  sharing  anything  with  her. 

"  Walter  Hepburn,  my  uncle's  assistant." 

Had  she  looked  at  him  then,  she  must  have  been  struck 
by  the  strange  expression,  coupled  with  a  sudden  flush, 
which  passed  over  his  face. 

"Ah,  yes,  just  so.  Well,  I'm  glad  the  fates  have  been 
kind,  and  brought  you  at  last  where  there 's  a  chance  of  be- 
ing appreciated,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "  Nice  little  girls,  my 
cousins;  awfully  good-hearted  little  souls,  though  Mina's 
tongue  is  a  trifle  too  sharp.  Yes,  miss,  I  'm  warning  Miss 
Graham  against  you,"  he  said,  when  Mina  uttered  his  name 
in  a  warning  note. 

"  Now,  to  punish  you,  I  shall  tell  you  my  latest  anecdote," 
Mina  said,  and,  heedless  of  the  half-laughing,  half-eager  pro- 
test of  Gladys,  she  related  the  incident  of  the  portrait,  with  a 
little  embellishment  which  made  him  appear  in  rather  a 
ridiculous  light. 

In  the  midst  of  the  laughter  which  her  relation  pro- 
voked, Mrs.  Fordyce  entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

DAYS  THAT  ARE  NOT." 

HE  last  days  of  April  came,  the  family  in  Bel- 
lair's  Crescent  were  making  preparations  for 
an  immediate  departure  to  the  Ayrshire  coast, 
and  as  yet  Gladys  had  neither  seen  nor  heard 
anything  of  Walter.  She  had  a  longing  to  revisit 
the  old  home,  and  yet  a  curious  reluctance  held  her  back. 
She  felt  hurt,  and  even  a  trifle  irritated,  against  Walter ;  and 
though  she  understood,  and  in  a  measure  sympathized  with, 
his  feelings,  she  thought  him  needlessly  morbid  and  sensi- 
tive regarding  their  new  relation  toward  each  other. 

"  Gladys,"  said  Clara  one  day,  when  she  had  watched  in 
silence. the  girl's  sweet  face,  and  noticed  its  half-sad,  half- 
wistful  expression,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  You  are 
fretting  about  something.  Tell  me  what  it  is.  Do  you  not 
wish  to  go  to  Troon  with  us,  or  would  you  rather  go  to 
Bourhill?  Do  tell  us  what  you  wpuld  like  best  to  do?'' 

They  were  quite  alone  in  the  little  morning-room  which 
had  been  given  up  to  the  girls  of  the  house  to  adorn  as  they 
liked.  It  was  a  pretty  corner,  dainty,  home-like,  cozy,  with 
a  long  window  opening  out  to  the  gai'den,  which  was  as 
beautiful  as  it  is  possible  for  a  city  garden  to  be. 
142 


"  THE  DAYS  TEAT  ARE  KOT."  143 

Gladys  gave  a  little  start,  and  colored  slightly  under 
Clara's  earnest  gaze. 

"  I  am  quite  happy  at  the  idea  of  going  to  Troon ;  re- 
member I  have  never  seen  the  sea,"  she  answered,  quickly. 
""What  makes  you  think  I  am  unhappy?" 

"  My  dear,  you  look  it.  You  can't  hide  it  from  me,  and 
you  are  going  to  tell  me  this  very  moment  what  is  vex- 
ing you." 

Clara  knelt  down  on  the  rug,  and,  with  her  hands  folded, 
looked  up  in  her  friend's  face.  Gladys  passed  her  hand 
lightly  over  the  smooth  braids  of  Clara's  beautiful  hair,  and 
did  not  for  a  moment  speak. 

"Did  you  ever  have  a  great  faith  in  any  one,  who  after  a 
time  disappointed  you?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"  No,  I  do  n't  think  so.  I  am  not  naturally  trusting, 
Gladys.  I  have  to  be  very  sure  before  I  put  absolute  faith 
in  any  one." 

"I  can  not  believe  that  of  you,  Clara.  How  kind  you 
have  been  to  me,  an  utter  stranger !  You  have  treated  me 
like  a  sister  since  the  first  happy  day  I  entered  the  house." 

"  0,  that  is  different.  You  know  very  well,  you  little 
fraud,  that  your  very  eyes  disarm  suspicion,  as  somebody 
says.  You  are  making  conquests  everywhere.  But  now  we 
are  away  from  the  point.  What  is  vexing  you?  Shall  I 
make  a  guess?" 

"  O,  if  you  like,"  answered  Gladys,  with  interest. 

"  Well,  you  are  thinking  of  past  days.  You  have  not  for- 
gotten the  companions  of  the  old  life,  and  it  is  grieving  you 
because  it  would  appear  that  they  have  forgotten  you." 

"He  might  have  come,  only  once,"  cried  Gladys,  rebell- 
iously,  not  for  a  moment  seeking  to  deny  or  admit  in  words 
the  truth  of  Clara's  words.  "  We  were  a  great  deal  to  each 
other.  It  is  hard  to  be  forgotten  so  soon." 

"  Gladys,  dear,  listen  to  me." 

Clara's  voice  became  quite  grave,  and  she  folded  her  hands 
impressively  above  her  companion's. 


144  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  You  must  not  be  angry  at  what  I  am  going  to  say,  be- 
cause it  is  true.  Has  it  not  occurred  to  you  that  this  young 
man,  in  thus  keeping  a  distance  from  you,  shows  himself 
wiser  than  you?" 

"  How?"  asked  Gladys,  coldly.  "  It  can  never  be  wise  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  another." 

-  "  My  dear,  though  your  simplicity  is  the  loveliest  thing 
about  you,  it  is  awfully  difficult  to  deal  with,"  said  Clara,  per- 
plexedly. "  You  must  know,  must  admit,  Gladys,  that  every- 
thing is  changed ;  and  that  while  you  might  be  quite  court- 
eous, and  even  friendly  after  a  fashion,  with  this  Mr.  Hepburn, 
anything  more  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  He  must  move 
in  his  own  sphere,  you  in  yours.  People  are  happier  in  their 
own  sphere.  To  try  and  lift  them  out  of  it  is  always  a  mis- 
take, and  ends  in  disaster  and  defeat.  Would  you  have  liked 
mamma  to  invite  him  here?" 

"  He  would  not  come,"  said  Gladys,  proudly.  "  He  would 
never  come.  He  said  so,  again  and  again." 

"  Then  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  you  who  are  lacking  in 
proper  pride,"  said  Clara,  calmly. 

"  What  is  proper  pride?" 

Gladys  smiled  with  the  faintest  touch  of  scorn  as  she 
asked  the  question. 

"  You  know  what  it  is  just  as  well  as  I  can  tell  you,  only 
it  pleases  you  to  be  perverse  this  morning,"  said  Clara,  goad- 
humoredly.  "  And  I  am  not  going  to  say  any  more." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  I  want  to  understand  this  thing.  Is  it 
imperative  that  the  mere  fact  that  my  uncle  has  left  me 
money  and  a  house  should  make  me  a  different  person  alto- 
gether?" 

"  It  affects  your  position,  not  necessarily  you.  Do  n't  be 
silly  and  aggravating,  Gladys,  or  I  must  shake  you,"  said 
Clara,  with  the  frank  candor  of  a  privileged  friend.  "  And 
really  I  can  not  understand  why  you  should  be  anxious  to 
keep  in  touch  with  that  old  life,  which  was  so  awfully  mean 
and  miserable." 


"  THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  NOT."  145 

"It  had  compensations,"  said  Gladys,  quickly.  "And  I 
do  think  that,  if  it  is  all  as  you  say,  there  is  more  sincerity 
among  poor  people  than  among  rich.  There  is  no  court  paid 
anyhow  to  money  and  position." 

"My  dear,  you  are  not  at  all  complimentary  to  us," 
laughed  Clara.  "Your  ingenuousness  is  truly  refreshing." 

"  I  am  not  speaking  about  you,  and  you  know  it  quite 
well,"  answered  Gladys.  "But  if  the  world  is  as  fond  of 
outward  things  as  you  say,  I  do  not  wish  to  know  anything 
of  it.  I  could  not  feel  at  home  in  it,  I  am  sure." 

"  My  dear  little  girl,  wait  till  your  place  is  put  in  order, 
and  you  take  up  your  abode  in  it,  Miss  Graham  of  Bourhill, 
the  envied  and  the  admired  of  a  whole  county,  and  you  will 
change  your  mind  about  the  world.  Just  wait  till  the  next 
Hunt  ball  at  Ayr,  and  we  '11  see  what  changes  it  will  bring." 

There  was  no  refuting  Clara's  good-natured  worldly  wis- 
dom, and  Gladys  had  to  be  silent.  But  she  pondered  many 
things  in  her  heart. 

"  When  do  we  go  to  Troon  ?    Is  n't  it  next  week  ?" 

"  Yes,  on  Tuesday." 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  asked  then,  with  a  slight  hesitation, 
"  that  Mrs.  Fordyce  would  allow  me  to  pay  a  little  visit  to 
my  old  homo  before  I  go,  for  the  last  time?" 

There  was  all  the  simplicity  and  wistfulness  of  a  child  in 
her  manner,  and  it  touched  Clara  to  the  quick. 

"Gladys,  are  you  a  prisoner  here,  dear?  Do  n't  vex  me 
saying  things  like  that.  Do  you  not  know  that  you  can  go 
out  and  in  just  as  you  like.  Of  course,  you  shall  go.  I 
will  take  you  myself,  if  mamma  can  not,  and  wait  for  you 
outside." 

True  to  her  promise,  Clara  ordered  the  brougham  on 
Monday  afternoon,  and  carried  Gladys  off  to  Colquhoun  Street. 
Clara  was,  like  most  quiet  people,  singularly  observant,  and 
she  noted  with  interest,  not  unmixed  with  pity,  how  nervous 
Gladys  became  as  they  neared  their  destination.  Mingling 
with  her  pity  was  a  great  curiosity  to  see  the  young  man 

10 


146  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

whose  image  seemed  to  dwell  in  the  constant  heart  of  Gladys. 
It  was  a  romance,  redeemed  from  vulgarity  by  the  beauty 
and  the  sweet  individuality  of  the  chief  actor  in  it. 

"I  shall  not  knock.  Do  n't  let  James  get  down,"  cried 
Gladys,  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  familiar  door.  "  I 
shall  just  run  in.  I  have  a  fancy  to  enter  unannounced." 

Clara  nodded,  and  Gladys,  springing  out,  opened  and 
closed  the  familiar  door.  Her  very  limbs  shook  as  she  went 
lightly  along  the  dark  passage  and  pushed  open  the  kitchen 
door.  It  was  unchanged,  yet  somehow  sadly  changed.  A 
desolateness  chilled  her  to  the  soul  as  she  looked  round  the 
wide,  gaunt  place,  saw  the  feeble  fire  choking  in  the  grate, 
and  the  remains  of  a  poor  meal  on  the  uncovered  table.  The 
light  struggling  through  the  barred  windows  had  never 
looked  upon  a  more  cheerless  picture.  All  things,  they  say, 
are  gauged  by  contrast.  Perhaps  it  was  the  contrast  to  what 
she  had  just  left  which  made  Gladys  think  she  had  never 
seen  her  old  home  look  more  wretched  and  forlorn. 

So  lightly  had  she  entered,  and  so  lightly  did  she  steal  up 
the  warehouse  stair,  that  the  solitary  being  making  out  ac- 
counts at  the  desk  was  not  aware  of  her  presence  until  she 
spoke.  And  then,  0  how  timid  her  look  and  tone,  just  as  if 
she  feared  greatly  her  reception  ! 

"Excuse  me  coming  in,  Walter.  I  wanted  so  much  to 
see  you,  I  could  not  help  coming.  I  will  not  hinder  you 
long." 

He  leaped  up,  in  the  greatness  of  his  surprise,  in  his  agi- 
tation knocking  over  the  stool  on  which  he  had  been  sitting. 
His  face  was  dusky  red,  his  firm  mouth  trembling,  as  he 
touched  for  a  moment  the  outstretched,  daintily  gloved  hand. 

"  O,  it  is  you.  Won't  you  sit  down?  It  is  a  battered  old 
chair;  but  if  you  will  wait  a  moment  I  '11  bring  you  another," 
he  said,  awkwai'dly. 

"  No,  do  n't.  I  have  often  sat  on  this  box.  I  can  sit  on 
it  again,"  she  said,  unsteadily.  "  I  won't  sit  on  ten  chairs, 
Walter,  though  you  should  bring  them  to  me  this  moment." 


"  THE  DA  YS  THAT  ARE  NOT."  147 

She  sat  down ;  and  her  movement  sent  a  faint  whiff  of 
perfume  about  her,  dainty  as  herself.  And  then  there  was 
just  a  moment's 'painful  silence.  The  awkwardness  of  the 
moment  dwelt  with  them  both ;  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
which  felt  it  more. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Walter,  stiffly,  "you  are  getting  on  all 
right." 

"  Yes.  I  thought  you  would  have  come  to  see  me  before 
this,  Walter,"  said  Gladys,  quietly. 

"You  need  not  have  thought  so.  I  said  I  wouldn't 
come;  that  nothing  would  induce  me  to  come,"  he  answered, 
shortly. 

"We  are  going  away  into  Ayrshire,  so  I  thought  I  must 
come  to  say  good-b}Te,"  Gladys  said,  then. 

"To  your  estate?" 

"  Xo ;  to  Troon,  where  the  sea  is." 

11  O,  and  will  you  stay  long?" 

"  Perhaps  all  the  summer.  How  are  you  getting  on  here 
all  alone,  Walter?  You  must  tell  me  that." 

"  O,  well  enough." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Macintyre  come  to  work  for  you?" 

"Yes;  morning  and  night  she  looks  in.  I'm  going  to 
make  this  thing  pay." 

He  looked  as  if  he  meant  it.  His  square  jaw  was 
firmly  set;  his  whole  look  that  of  a  man  determined  to 
succeed. 

"  I  hope  you  will,  Walter.  I  feel  sure  of  it,"  she  said, 
brightly. 

"It'll  be  awful  drudgery  for  awhile,"  he  continued, 
almost  in  the  confidential  tones  of  yore.  "  To  have  so  much 
money,  yom-  uncle  had  the  poorest  way  of  doing  business. 
He  had  the  customers  all  under  his  thumb,  and  made  them 
fetch  and  carry  what  they  wanted  themselves.  In  that  way 
he  saved  a  man's  wages.  I  'm  not  giving  anything  on  credit ; 
and  after  they  've  once  freed  themselves,  and  can  pay  cash  for 
what  they  get,  they  '11  want  it  delivered  to  them,  and  quite 


148  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

right.  Then  I  '11  get  a  man  and  a  horse  and  cart ;  and  when 
I  once  get  that,  the  thing  will  grow  like  a  mushroom." 

"How  clever  you  are  to  think  of  all  that!"  said  Gladys, 
admiringly.  "  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  succeed." 

"I  mean  to,"  he  said,  soberly,  but  with  a  quiet  determina- 
tion which  convinced  Gladys  how  much  in  earnest  he  was. 

"  But  do  n't  let  success  make  you  hai'd,  Walter,"  she  said, 
gently.  "  Eemember  how  we  used  to  plan  what  we  should  do 
for  the  poor  if  we  were  rich." 

"  Your  opportunity  is  here,  then,"  he  said,  sharply. 
"  Mine  is  only  to  come." 

The  tone,  more  than  the  words,  wounded  her  afresh.  0, 
this  was  not  the  Walter  of  old  !  She  rose  from  the  old  box  a 
trifle  wearily,  and  looked  around  her  with  a  slightly  sad- 
dened air. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  your  sister?"  she  asked 
him. 

"  No,  nothing." 

"  She  has  never  written  to  any  one?" 

"  No.  I  think  she  has  gone  to  London  to  join  a  theater. 
The  girl  who  was  her  chum  thinks  so  too." 

"  Are  your  father  and  mother  well?" 

"  As  well  as  they  deserve  to  be.  They  wanted  to  come 
here  and  live.  Had  they  been  decent  and  respectable,  it 
would  n't  have  been  a  bad  arrangement.  As  they  are,  I 
simply  wouldn't  have  it.  I  'd  never  get  on.  Of  course,  they 
cast  my  pride  in  my  teeth  ;  but  I  have  little  enough  to  be 
proud  of." 

His  mood  cast  its  dark  spell  over  the  girl's  sensitive 
heart,  and  she  turned  to  go. 

"It's  all  so  different,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  But  the 
difference  is  not  in  me.  Shall  we  never  meet  now,  Walter?" 

"  It  will  be  better  not.  If  I  ever  succeed — and  I  have 
determined  to  do  it — we  may  then  meet  on  more  equal 
ground,"  he  sftid,  steadily;  and  not  a  sign  of  the  unutterable 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  NOT." 


149 


longing  in  his  heart  betrayed  itself  in  his  set  face.  His 
pride  was  as  cruel  as  the  grave. 

"Till  then,  it  is  good-bye,  then,  I  suppose,'1  she  said, 
quietly. 

t;  Yes,  till  then.  The  day  will  come,  or  I  shall  know  the 
reason  why.'' 

•'  But  it  may  be  too  late  then,  Walter,  for  us  both." 

With  these  words,  destined  to  ring  their  warning 
changes  in  his  ears  for  many  days,  she  left  him  without 
touch  of  the  hand  or  other  farewell. 

<;  Well,  dear,"  said  Clara,  with  a  slightly  quizzical  smile, 
"  has  it  made  you  happier  to  revive  the  ghosts  of  the  past?" 

"Xo;  you  were  right,  and  I  was  wrong,"  said  Gladys,  as 
she  sank  into  the  cushioned  seat.  "  It  was  a  great  mistake." 

But  even  Clara  did  not  know  how  dark  was  the  shadow 
which  had  settled  down  on  the  girl's  gentle  soul. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


SWEETS  OK  LIKE. 


ROM  that  day  a  change  was  observed  in  Gla- 
dys Graham.  It  was  as  if  she  had  suddenly 
awakened  from  a  dream,  to  find  herself  sur- 
rounded by  the  realities  of  life.  Her  Hstlessness 
vanished,  her  pensive  moods  became  things  of 
the  past.  None  could  be  more  interested  in  every  plan  and 
project,  however  small,  in  which  the  Fordyce  household 
were  concerned.  She  became  lively,  merry,  energetic;  it 
seemed  impossible  for  her  to  be  still. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  with  Gladys, 
Clara?"  said  Mina,  the  morning  of  the  day  they  were  to 
leave  town.  "  You,  who  pretend  to  be  a  philosopher  and 
a  reader  of  character,  ought  to  be  able  to  solve  that 
mystery."' 

"  What  do  you  see  the  .matter  with  her?"  inquired  Clara, 
answering  the  question  by  another,  as  was  her  way  when 
she  did  not  want  to  commit  herself  to  an  expression  of 
opinion. 

"  Why,    she    is   a  different  girl.     Do  n't    tell    me    you 
have  n't  noticed  it.     She  carries  that  Len  to   outrageous 
150 


THE  SWEETS  OF  LIFE.  151 

lengths ;  and  if  you  do  n't  call  her  behavior  at  Aunt  Mar- 
garet's last  night  the  most  prominent  flirtation,  I  do  n't 
know  what  it  is." 

•'Just  put  it  to  Gladys.  Mina.  If  she  ever  heard  the 
word  flirtation,  I  am  positive  she  does  n't  know  what  it 
means." 

'c  O,  fiddle-de-dee!  Every  wToman,  unless  she  is  a  fool, 
knows  intuitively  what  flirtation  means,  and  can  put  it  in 
practice.  But  it  struck  me  last  night  that  Aunt  Margaret 
rather  encouraged  George  to  pay  attention  to  Gladys.  Of 
course,  it  was  quite  marked." 

"  Why  should  she  encourage  it?"  asked  Clara,  with  a  slight 
inflection  of  huskiness  in  her  voice. 

"  Clai-a,  really  you  are  too  obtuse,  or  pretend  to  be.  Of 
course  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  them.  She  belongs  to  an 
old  Ayrshire  family,  and  poor  Aunt  Margaret  adores  lineage. 
If  she  could  with  any  effrontery  assume  it  herself,  she  would  ; 
but,  alas !  every  body  knows  where  the  Fordyces  came  from. 
They  '11  angle  for  our  dear  little  ward  this  summer,  and  bait 
the  hook  with  gold." 

"  Eeally  you  are  vulgar,  Mina,"  said  Clara,  a  trifle  coldly, 
and,  bending  over  an  open  trunk,  busied  herself  with  some  of 
the  trifles  in  the  tray. 

"  We.  are  sure  to  forget  a  thousand  things.  Do  you  think 
everything  is  here  which  ought  to  go?"  she  said,  deliberately 
changing  the  subject. 

"  O,  I  do  n't  know.  We  shall  be  glad  of  any  excuse  to 
come  up  in  a  week.  If  it  is  fearfully  slow,  I  'm  coming  back 
to  keep  Leonard  company.  Well,  I  suppose  we  must  make 
haste.  The  cabs  will  be  here  directly." 

"  Not  till  after  breakfast,  surely.  There  is  the  gong. 
Are  you  ready  ?" 

"Yes;  just  put  in  this  stud  for  me,  like  a  dear.  How 
immaculate  you  are,  just  as  if  you  had  stepped  from  a  band- 
box !  How  do  you  manage  to  be  so  tidy,  and  yet  always  so 
elegant?  When  I  am  tidy,  I  am  stiff  as  a  poker." 


152  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Clara  laughed,  and,  having  fastened  the  refractory  collar 
button,  bent  her  stately  head,  and  gave  her  sister  a  kiss. 

"Don't  attempt  to  be  too  tidy;  it  will  spoil  your  indi- 
viduality." 

"  They  were  two  sisters  of  one  race, 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face," 

sang  Mina,  as  she  bounded  down-stairs,  not  disdaining,  in 
spite  of  her  eighteen  years,  to  slide  down  the  last  few  feet  ot 
the  bannisters.  Only  she  took  care  to  see  that  nobody  but 
Clara  was  in  sight. 

It  was  a  very  happy  breakfast-table,  though  Leonard, 
whose  classes  kept  him  in  town,  affected  a  melancholy  mood. 

"  I  have  only  one  piece  of  advice  to  give  you,  Gladys,  in 
addition  to  my  parting  blessing,"  he  said,  teasingly.  "  How 
much  will  you  give  for  it?" 

"  How  much  is  it  worth?"  she  flashed  back  in  a  moment, 
her  eye  dancing  with  fun. 

"  Untold  gold,  as  you  will  find  if  you  take  it." 

"  I  can't  buy  it  at  that  price,"  she  answered,  demurely. 

"  Well,  I  '11  give  it  for  nothing,  in  gratitude  for  the  peace 
I  shall  enjoy  this  evening.  Mamma,  may  n't  I  come  down 
Wednesday  nights  as  well  as  Fridays?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  you  may  n't,"  replied  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
shaking  her  head.  "  If  you  work  hard  all  week,  you  will 
enjoy  your  Saturdays  all  the  more." 

"All  right.  Papa  and  I  will  have  high  jinks,  see  if  we 
do  n't,"  said  the  lad,  with  a  series  of  little  nods  towards  the 
newspaper  which  hid  his  father's  face.  Mr.  Fordyce  did  not 
hear  this  remark,  though  he  looked  up  in  mild  surprise  at 
the  laughter  it  provoked. 

"  You  seem  very  merry,  Len,  my  boy.  It  is  time  you 
were  off." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  That's  the  way  a  fellow 's  treated  in  this 
house — not  allowed  five  minutes  to  eat  a  decent  breakfast. 
Well,  I  'm  off.  Good-bye,  all." 

"  The  advice,  Leonard  ?"  asked  Gladys,  when   he  came 


THE  SWEETS  OF  LIFE.  153 

round  to  her  chair.     He  bent  down,  whispered  something  in 
her  ear,  and  ran  off. 

"What  did  he  say,  Gladys?  Do  tell  us!"  cried  Mina,  in 
curiosity. 

"  I  must,  because  I  do  n't  understand  it,"  answered  Gladys. 
"  He  said,  '  Do  n't  let  them  take  you  for  a  walk  on  the  Bal- 
last Bank.'  What  did  he  mean?" 

"  O,  the  Ballast  Bank  is  the  only  promenade  Troon  can 
boast  of,  and  Len  has  a  rooted  aversion  to  it,"  replied  Mina. 
"  He  is  a  most  absurd  boy." 

In  spite,  however,  of  Leonard's  advice,  many  a  delightful 
blow  did  Gladys  enjoy  on  the  Ballast  Bank. 

The  spring  winds  had  not  yet  lost  their  wintry  touch  on 
the  Ayrshire  coast.  Sweeping  in  from  the  sea,  they  made 
sport  with  the  golfers  on  the  Links,  and  taxed  their  skill  to 
the  utmost.  The  long  stretch  of  gray  sand,  upon  which  the 
great  green  waves  rolled  in  and  broke  with  no  gentle  mur- 
mur ;  the  wide  expanse  of  the  still  wintry-looking  sea ;  the  en- 
chanted pictures  to  bo  seen  in  the  clear  morning  light,  where 
the  Arran  hills  stood  out  so  bold  and  rugged  against  the  sky ; 
and  at  sunset,  when  the  tossing  waters  were  sometimes 
stilled  into  an  exquisite  rest, — all  these  were  revelations  to  the 
girl,  who  had  the  soul  and  the  eye  of  an  artist,  and  she  drank 
them  in  with  no  ordinary  draught  of  enjoyment. 

She  lived  out  of  doors.  Wind  and  weather  could  not 
keep  her  in  the  house.  When  the  rain-drops  blew  fierce  and 
wild  in  the  gale,  she  would  start  across  the  garden,  out 
by  the  little  gate  to  the  beach,  and,  close  by  the  edge  of 
the  angry  sea,  watch  the  great  waves  rolling  in  to  her  feet; 
and  as  she  looked  her  eyes  grew  large  and  luminous,  and  she 
would  draw  great  breaths  of  delight.  The  wideness  of  the  sea 
satisfied  her ;  its  wildest  moods  only  breathed  into  her  soul 
an  ineffable  calm. 

In  the  course  of  a  week  the  Pollockshields  Fordyces  also 
arrived  at  their  coast  residence,  and  there  began  to  be  a  quite 
unprecedented  amount  of  friendly  coming  and  going  between 


154  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

the  two  families.  It  became  evident,  before  long,  tbat 
George  Fordyce  appeared  to  find  some  great  attraction  at 
the  Anchorage,  though  in  former  years  he  had  only  pre- 
sented himself  at  rare  intervals  during  the  months  his  people 
were  at  the  sea-side.  And  those  who  looked  on  saw  quite 
well  how  matters  were  drifting,  and  each  viewed  it  in  a  dif- 
ferent light.  The  most  unconscious,  of  course,  was  Gladys 
herself.  She  knew  that  everybody  was  kind  to  her — George 
Fordyce,  perhaps,  specially  so.  He  could  be  a  very  gallant 
squire  when  he  liked.  He  was  master  of  all  the  little  atten- 
tions women  love,  and  in  his  manner  towards  Gladys  man- 
aged to  infuse  a  certain  deference  not  untouched  by  tender- 
ness, which  she  found  quite  gratifying. 

She  had  so  long  lived  a  meager,  barren  existence  that  she 
seemed  almost  greedy  of  the  lovely  and  pleasant  things  of  life. 
She  enjoyed  wearing  her  beautiful  gowns,  living  in  luxurious 
rooms,  eating  dainty  food  at  a  well-appointed  table;  in  all 
that  there  was  nothing  unnatural.  It  was  but  the  inevitable 
reaction  after  what  she  had  gone  through.  She  began  to 
understand  that  life  has  two  sides — one  for  the  rich  and  one  for 
the  poor — and  she  was  glad  with  an  honest,  simple  gladness 
that  she  had  been  permitted  to  taste  the  best  at  last.  She 
retained  her  simple,  genuine  manner;  but  her  soul  had  had 
its  first  taste  of  power,  and  it  found  it  surpassing  sweet. 
Beauty  and  riches  had  proved  themselves  valuable  in  her 
eyes,  and  there  were  times  when  she  looked  back  upon  the 
old  life  with  a  shudder. 

In  the  intoxication  of  that  first  summer  of  her  new  life, 
memory  of  Walter  grew  dim  in  her  heart.  She  thought  of 
him  but  seldom,  never  of  her  own  free  will.  Unconsciously 
she  was  learning  a  lesson  which  wealth  and  power  so  arro- 
gantly strive  to  teach — to  put  away  from  her  all  unpleasant 
thoughts.  Let  us  not  blame  her.  She  was  very  young,  and 
experience  has  to  lead  the  human  heart  by  many  tortuous 
ways  to  full  understanding.  So  Gladys  lived  her  happy, 
careless,  girlish  summer  by  the  sea,  enjoying  it  to  the  full. 


THE  SWEETS  OF  LIFE.  155 

"Tom,''  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  to  her  husband  one  afternoon 
as  they  sat  at  the  drawing-room  window  watching  the  young 
folks  in  the  garden,  "do  you  thing  there  is  anything  serious 
between  Gladys  and  George  Fordyce?'' 

"  Eh,  what?     No,  I  do  n't  think  so." 

"  Well,  I  do — just  look  at  them  at  this  moment." 

They  were  sauntering,  arm  in  arm,  on  the  path  within  the 
shadow  of  the  garden  wall — Gladys,  with  a  bunch  of  pink 
sea-daisies  in  her  hand,  a  pretty  bit  of  color  against  her  white 
gown.  There  was  a  tint  as  delicate  in  the  fair  cheek  under 
the  big  sun  hat,  brought  there,  perhaps,  by  some  of  her  com- 
panion's words.  His  attitude  and  bearing  were  certainly 
lover-like,  and  his  handsome  head  was  bent  rather  nearer  the 
big  sun-hat  than  Mrs.  Fordyce  altogether  approved. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  my  dear,  it  looks  rather  like  it;  only 
I  have  heard  the  girls  say  that  George  is  a  great  flirt." 

"He  is,  but  I  do  n't  think  it's  flirting  in  this  case,"  said 
Mrs.  Fordyce,  serioushr.  "  I  am  afraid  we,  or  at  least  I, 
have  been  very  indiscreet." 

"You  would  n't  approve  then,  Isabel.  George  is  a  trifle 
vain  and  silly,  but  I  never  heard  anything  against  his 
character." 

"  I  suppose  not.  We  would  be  the  last  to  hear  any  such 
rumors.  But  it  isn't  fair  to  the  girl;  she  has  not  had  a 
chance.  Do  you  know  what  people  will  say  of  us,  Tom? 
That  we  took  her  away  down  here,  and  shut  her  up  among 
ourselves  for  the  very  purpose  of  match-making.  It  is  a 
blessing  our  Leonard  is  only  a  boy ;  but  it  is  bad  enough  that 
it  should  be  our  nephew." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  you  say;  but  the 
world  must  just  wag  its  stupid  tongue.  If  the  thing  is  to 
be,  we  can't  prevent  it." 

"  We  can ;  we  must.  She  is  only  a  child,  Tom.'  I  feel 
quite  convicted  of  my  own  sinful  want  of  observation.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  it  all  day,  and  my  mind  is  made  up, 
provided  you,  as  her  guardian,  will  give  your  consent.  She 


156  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

must  go  abroad.  Do  3^011  remember  Henrietta  Duncan,  who 
married  the  French  officer?  She  is  living  in  Bruges  now, 
taking  a  few  English  ladies  into  her  house.  Gladys  must  go 
there." 

Mr.  Fordyce  looked  at  his  wife  in  profound  astonish- 
ment. He  had  not  often  heard  her  speak  in  such  a  very 
determined  manner. 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  can't  have  any  objections,  if  the  child 
herself  is  willing  to  go,"  he  said.  "Not  that  I  believe  it 
will  do  an  atom  of  good.  If  there  is  a  love  affair  in  the 
matter,  opposition  is  the  very  life  of  them.  Do  n't  you 
remember  our  own  case?"  he  asked,  referring  with  a  smile 
to  the  old  romance  which  had  kept  them  true  through  years 
of  opposition  and  discouragement. 

"  I  have  n't  forgotten  it,"  she  said,  with  an  answering 
smile ;  "  only  it  is  impossible  these  two  in  so  short  a  time  can 
be  seriously  involved.  I  '11  find  out  this  very  day." 

"  You  are  not  in  favor  of  it,  Isabel,  and  a  willful  woman 
must  have  her  way." 

"It's  not  altogether  fear  of  the  world's  opinion,  Tom; 
there  's  something  about  George  I  do  n't — nay,  can't  like. 
He  is  very  handsome,  and  can  be  very  agreeable ;  but  I  never 
feel  that  he  is  sincere,  and  he  is  profoundly  selfish.  Even 
his  mother  says  that." 

"Ah,  well,  she  would  need  kind  dealing,  Isabel;  she  is  a 
high-strung  creature,"  said  the  lawyer,  thoughtfully,  and 
the  subject  dropped. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


HILE  these  golden  days  were  speeding   by  the 
sea,    Bourhill    was   being   put    in    order    for   its 
young  mistress.     Her  interest  in  the  alterations 
was  very  keen  ;    there   were  very  few   days   in 
which  they  did  not  drive  to  the  old  house,  and 
Mrs.  Fordycc  was  surprised  alike  at  the  common  sense  and 
artistic  taste  she  displayed  in  that  interest. 

"  Do  you  think,  dear  Mrs.  Fordyee.'1  she  asked  one  day, 
when  they  happened  to  be  alone  together  at  Bourhill  —  "do 
you  think  the  house  could  be  ready  for  me  by  the  end  of 
September,  when  you  return  to  Glasgow?'' 

'•  It  will  be  ready,  of  course  ;  there  is  really  very  little  to 
do  now,"  replied  Mrs.  Fordyce.  i£  But  why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Why,  because  if  it  is  read}7,  then  I  need  not  go  up  with 
you.  You  have  been  very  kind.  I  can  never,  never  forget 
it  ;  but,  of  course,  when  I  have  a  home  of  my  own  it  would 
not  be  right  of  me  to  trespass  any  longer  on  your  kind- 
ness,'' said  Gladys,  thoughtfully. 

Mrs.  Fordyce  could  not  forbear  a  smile. 
"  How  old  are  you,  my  dear?     I  do  not  know  that  I  have 
ever  heard  your  age  exactly.'1 


158  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"I  shall  be  eighteen  next  mouth." 

"  Eighteen  next  month  ? — not  a  very  responsible  age.  Is 
it  possible,  my  dear,  that  you  feel  perfectly  fit  to  take  pos- 
session here,  that  you  would  have  no  tremors  regaining  your 
lonely  position  and  your  responsibility?" 

"  I  have  no  such  feeling,  Mrs.  Fordyce.  I  could  live  here 
quite  well.  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  not?"  she 
asked,  observing  the  doubtful  expression  on  the  face  of  her 
kind  friend. 

"It  is  quite  impossible,  my  dear,  whatever  your  feelings 
may  be — altogether  out  of  the  question  that  you  should 
live  here  alone." 

"But  tell  me  why?  I  am  not  a  child.  I  have  always 
seemed  to  occupy  a  responsible  position  where  I  have  had  to 
think  and  act  for  myself." 

"Yes,  you  have;  but  your  position  is  entirely  altered 
now.  It  would  not  be  proper  for  you  to  live  in  this  great 
house  alone,  with  no  company  but  that  of  servants.  Mr. 
Fordyce  would  but  poorly  fulfill  his  promise  to  your  poor 
uncle  if  he  entertained  such  an  idea  for  a  moment.  If  you  are 
to  live  at  Bourhill  at  all,  you  must  have  a  responsible  person 
to  live  with  you.  But  we  had  other  plans  for  you." 

"  Tell  me  what  plans,  please,"  said  Gladys,  with  that  sim- 
ple directness  which  made  evasion  of  any  question  impossible 
to  her,  or  to  any  conversing  with  her. 

"  Mr.  Fordyce  and  I  have  thought  that  it  would  be  to 
your  advantage  to  winter  abroad.  I  have  an  old  school- 
friend,  who  married  a  Belgian  officer,  and  who  is  now  left 
widowed  in  poor  circumstances  in  Bruges.  You  would  be 
most  happy  and  comfortable  with  Madame  Bonnemain.  She 
is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  charming  of  women.  Musical 
and  cultured,  her  companionship  would  be  invaluable 
to  you." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  wish  to  go  abroad,  meanwhile.  Would 
you  and  Mr.  Fordyce  think  it  ungrateful  if  I  refused  to  go?" 

"  Well,  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Fordyce,  though  with  a  slight 


PLANS.  159 

accent  of  surprise.     "But  can  you  tell  me  what  is  your  ob- 
jection ?" 

"  I  want  to  come  here  and  live  just  as  soon  as  it  is  possi- 
ble," said  Gladys,  looking  round  .the  dismantled  house  with 
wistful,  affectionate  eyes.  "  I  want  to  have  my  very  own 
house.  I  can  never  feel  that  it  is  mine  until  I  live  in  it;  and 
I  have  many  plans." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  some  of  them?"  said  Mrs. 
Fordyce,  rather  anxiously.  She  was  a  very  practical  person, 
attentive  to  the  laws  of  conventionality,  and  she  did  not 
feel  at  all  siu*e  of  the  views  entertained  by  her  husband's 
ward. 

"  I  want  to  be  a  help  to  people,  if  I  can,"  said  Gladys. 
"  especially  to  working-girls  in  Glasgow — to  those  poor  creat- 
ures who  sew  in  the  garrets  and  cellars.'  I  know  of  them. 
I  have  seen  them  at  their  work,  and  it  is  dreadful  for  me  to 
think  of  them.  Sometimes  this  summer,  when  I  have  been 
so  happy.  I  have  thought  of  some  I  know,  and  reproached 
myself  with  my  own  selfish  forget  fulness.  You  see.  if  I  do 
not  help  where  I  knoic  of  the  need,  I  am  not  a  good  steward 
of  the  mone}'  God  has  given  me.;> 

"But  tell  me,  my  dear  child,  how  would  you  propose  to 
help?"  asked  Mrs.  Fordyce,  inwardly  touched,  but  wishing 
to  understand  clearly  what  Gladys  wished  and  intended  to 
do.  There  seemed  no  indecision  or  wavering  about  her. 
She  spoke  with  all  the  calm  dignity  of  a  woman  who  knew 
and  accepted  her  responsibilities. 

"  I  can  help  them  in  various  wa}-s.  I  can  have  them  here 
sometimes,  especially  when  they  are  not  strong;  so  many  of 
them  are  not  strong.  Mrs.  Fordyce.  0  I  have  been  so  sorry 
for  them,  and  some  of  them  have  never,  never  been  out  of 
these  dreadful  streets.  O,  I  can  help  them  in  a  thousand 
ways !" 

Mrs.  Fordyce  was  silent,  not  knowing  very  well  how  to 
answer.  She  saw  many  difficulties  ahead,  yet  hesitated  to 
.chill  the  girl's  young  enthusiasm.,  which  seemed  a  beautiful 


160  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

and  a  heavenly  thing  even  to  the  woman  of  the  world,  who 
believed  that  it  could  never  come  to  fruition. 

"  There  is  something  else  which  might  be  done.  What 
would  you  say  to  Madame  Bonnemain  coming  here  to  live 
with  you  as  housekeeper  and  chaperon  ?" 

"  If  you,  knowing  us  both,  think  it  would  be  a  happy 
arrangement,  I  shall  be  happy,"  Gladys  said,  and  the  wis- 
dom of  the  reply  struck  Mrs.  Fordyce.  Certainly  in  many 
respects  Gladys  spoke  and  acted  like  a  woman  who  had 
tasted  the  experience  of  life. 

"  My  love,  anybody  could  live  with  you,  and  unless  sor- 
row and  care  have  materially  changed  Henrietta  Bonnemain, 
anybody  could  live  with  her,"  she  said,  cheerfully.  "  Sup- 
pose we  take  a  little  trip  to  Belgium  and  see  what 'can  be 
done  to  arrange  it?"  . 

"  0  yes,  that  would  be  delightful !  I  shall  know  just  at 
once  whether  Madame  Bonnemain  and  I  can  be'  happy 
together.  Is  she  a  Scotch  lady?" 

"  To  the  backbone.  She  was  born  at  Shandon,  on  the  Gair- 
loch,  and  we  went  to  Brussels  to  school  together.  She  never 
came  back — married  at  eighteen,  Gladys — and  only  a  wife 
five  years.  She  has  had  a  hard  life,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  and 
her  eyes  grew  dim  over  the  memories  of  her  youth. 

"  Can  we  go  soon,  then  ?"  asked  Gladys,  fervently.  "  Just 
when  they  are  finishing  the  house.  Then  we  could  bring 
Madame  back  with  us." 

"  My  dear,  you  will  not  let  the  grass  grow  under -your 
feet,  nor  allow  any  one  else  to  loiter  by  the  way,"  said  Mrs. 
Fordyce,  with  a  laugh.  "  Well,  we  shall  see  what  Mr.  For- 
dyce has  to  say  to-night  to  these  grand  plans." 

Some  days  after  that  conversation,  Mrs.  Macintyre  was 
laboring  over  her  washing-tub  in  her  very  limited  domain  in 
the  back  court  off  Colquhoun  Street,  when  a  quick,  light 
knock  came  to  her  door. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  not  thinking  it  worth  while  to  look 
round,  or  to  lift  her  hands  from  the  suds. 


PLANS.  161 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Macintyre;  how  are  you  to-day?" 
she  heard  a  sweet  voice  say,  and  in  a  moment  she  became  in- 
terested and  excited. 

"Mercy  me,  Miss,  is  't  you?  an'  me  in  a  perfick  potch," 
she  said,  apologetically.  "  No  a  corner  for  ye  to  step  dry  on, 
nor  a  seat  to  sit  doon  on.  Could  ye  no  jist  tak'  a  walk  the 
length  o'  the  auld  place  or  I  redd  up  a  wee?" 

"No,  no,  Mrs.  Macintyre,"  replied  Gladys,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Never  mind,  I  '11  get  a  seat  somewhere.  I  have  come  to 
see  you  very  particularly,  and  I  'm.  not  going  to  take  any 
walks  till  our  business  is  settled.  And  are  you  quite  well  ?" 

"  'Deed,  I  'm  just  middlin',"  said  the  good  woman,  and 
then,  with  one  extraordinary  sweep  of  her  bare  arm,  she  gath- 
ered all  the  soiled  linen  off  the  floor  and  pushed  it  under 
the  bed ;  then  vigorously  rubbing  up  a  chair,  she  spread  a 
clean  apron  on  it,  and  having  persuaded  Gladys  to  sit  down, 
stood  straight  in  front  of  her,  looking  at  her  with  a  species 
of  adoring  admiration. 

"  Ye  micht  hae  let  a  body  ken  ye  were  comin'.  Sic  a 
potch  I"  she  said,  ruefully.  "  My,  but  ye  are  a  picter,  an'  nae 
mistak'." 

Gladys  laughed ;  and  the  sound  rang  through  the  place 
like  sweetest  music. 

"  Have  you  not  been  quite  well?  I  think  you  are  thin- 
ner," she  said,  kindly. 

"  No — I  've  no  been  up  to  muckle ;  fair  helpless  some  days 
wi'  rheumatics.  The  washin's  no  extra  guid  for  them,  but  a 
body  maun  dae  something  for  meat.  I  've  anither  mooth 
to  fill  noo.  Myguid-brither,  Bob  Johnson's  deid  since  I  saw 
ye,  an'  I  ve  been  obliged  to  tak'  Tammy,  no  an  ill  loon.  He '» 
at  the  skule  or  ye  wad  hae  seen  him." 

"  I  do  n't  suppose  you  would  be  sorry  to  leave  this  place 
and  give  up  the  washing  if  you  tjould  get  something  easier," 
said  Gladys. 

"  No  me,  a'  places  are  the  same  to  me.  Hae  ye  been  up 
by?"  asked  Mrs.  Macintyre,  significantly. 

11 


162  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Gladys  shook  her  head. 

"  I  came  to  see  whether  you  would  come  and  live  in  the 
lodge  at  my  gate.  It  is  a  nice  little  house,  and  1  would  like 
to  have  you  near  me ;  you  were  a  kind  friend  in  the  old  days." 

Mrs.  Macintyre  drew  her  rough  hand  across  her  eyes,  and 
turned  somewhat  sharply  back  to  her  wash-tub;  and  for 
the  moment  she  gave  no  answer,  good  or  bad. 

"  What  about  Tammy?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"  0,  he  could  come  with  you,  of  course.  He  could  go  to 
school  in  Mauchline  just  as  well  as  in  Glasgow.  Just  say 
you  '11  come.  I  've  set  my  heart  on  it,  and  nobody  refuses 
me  anything  just  now." 

"I'll  come  fast  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Macintyre,  rubbing 
away  as  for  dear  life  at  her  wash-board,  upon  which  the  big 
salt  tears  were  dropping  surreptitiously.  "  Me  no  want  to 
leave  this  place?  I 'm  no  that  fond  o't.  Sometimes  it '8  si 
perfect  wee  hell  in  this  stair ;  it 's  no  guid  for  Tammy  or  ony 
wean.  'Deed  it 's  no  guid  for  onybody  livin'  in  sic  a  place ; 
but  if  ye  are  puir  an'  tryin'  to  live  decent,  ye  jist  have  to  pit 
up  wi'  what  ye  can  pay  for.  Ay,  I  '11  come  fast  enough,  an' 
thank  ye  kindly.  But  ye  micht  get  a  mair  genty  body  for 
your  gate.  I  'm  a  rough  tyke,  an'  aye  was." 

"  It  is  you  I  want,"  replied  Glad}Ts ;  then  in  a  few  words  she 
explained  the  very  liberal  arrangement  she  had  in  view  for 
her  old  friend.  After  that  a  little  silence  fell  upon  them,  and 
a  great  Avistfulness  gathered  in  the  girl's  gentle  eyes. 

"  So  ye  hinna  been  up  by,"  said  Mrs.  Macintyre.  "Are 
ye  gaun  ?" 

"  Not  to-day.     Is  Walter  well  ?" 

"  Ay,  he  is  weel.  He's  a  fine  chap,  an'  he's  in  terrible 
earnest  aboot  something,"  said  Mrs.  Macintju-e,  thought- 
fully, as  she  shook  out  the  garment  she  had  been  rubbing. 
"  There  's  a  something  deep  doou  in  thon  heart  no  mouy  can 
see.  But  the  place  is  no  the  place  it  was  to  him  or  to  me. 
What  way  wull  ye  no  gang  up?  Eh,  but  he  wad  be  fell  glad 
to  see  ye,  my  lady — " 


PLANS.  163 

"  I  am  not  going  to-day,"  replied  Gladys,  quietly,  and 
even  with  a  touch  of  coldness.  "You  can  tell  him,  if  you 
like,  that  I  was  here,  and  that  I  hoped  he  was  well." 

"Ay,  I  '11  tell  him.     And  are  ye  happy,  my  doo?" 

It  was  a  beautiful  and  touching  thing  to  see  the  rare  ten- 
derness in  the  woman's  plain  face  as  she  asked  that  question. 

"  Yes — I — think  so,"  Gladys  replied,  but  she  got  up  sud- 
denly from  her  seat,  and  her  voice  gave  a  suspicious  tremor. 
'•  Money  can  do  a  great  deal,  Mrs.  Macintyre;  but  it  can  not 
do  everything — not  everything." 

"  Aweel  no.  I  dinna  pray  mucklc — there  's  no  muckle 
encouragement  for  sic  releegious  ordinances  this  airt — but  I 
whiles  speir  at  the  Lord  no  to  mak'  siller  a  wecht  for  ye  to 
cairry.  Weel,  are  you  awa?" 

"  Yes.  good-bye.  When  you  come  down  to  Bourhill  after  I 
come  back,  we  11  have  long  talks.  J  shall  be  so  glad  to  have 
you  there.'' 

"  Aweel.  wha  wad  hae  thocht  it  ?  Ye  '11  no  rue  'd,  my  doo, 
if  I  'm  spared  :  that 's  a'  the  thanks  I  can  gie.  An'  wull  ye 
no  gang  up  by?" 

There  was  distinct  anxiety  in  her  repetition  of  the  question. 
But  Gladys,  with  averted  head,  hastened  toward  the  door. 

"  Xot  to-day — good-bye."  she  said,  quickly,  and,  with  a 
warm  hand-shake,  which  anew  convinced  the  honest  woman 
that  the  girl  remained  unchanged,  she  went  her  way. 

But  instead  of  going  back  through  the  lane  to  Argyle 
Street,  she  continued  up  the  familiar  dull  sti-eet  till  she  reached 
the  warehouse  door.  She  stopped  outside,  and  there  being 
no  one  in  .sight  she  laid  her  slender  hand  on  the  handle  with 
a  lingering,  ay.  a  caressing  touch,  and  then,  as  if  ashamed, 
she  turned  about  and  quickly  hurried  out  of  sight. 

And  no  one  saw  that  tender,  touching  little  act  except  a 
grimy  sparrow  on  the  leads;  and  he  flew  off  with  aloud 
chirp,  and,  joining  a  neighbor  on  the  old  stunted  tree,  made 
so  much  noise  that  it  was  just  possible  he  was  delivering  his 
opinion  of  the  whole  matter. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL. 

OR  the  first  time  in  her  life  Gladys  tasted  the 
novelty  of  foreign  travel.  It  was  quite  a  lady's 
party,  consisting  of  Mrs.  Fordyee  and  her 
daughters ;  though  Mr.  Fordyee  had  promised  to 
join  them  somewhere  abroad,  especially  if  they 
remained  too  long  away.  Also,  there  were  vague  promises 
on  the  part  of  the  Pollockshields  cousins  to  meet  them  in 
Paris,  after  the  main  object  of  their  visit  to  Belgium  was 
accomplished. 

They  staid  a  week  in  London  ;  not  the  London  Gladys 
remembered  as  in  a  shadowy  dream.  The  luxurious  life  of 
a  first-rate  hotel  had  nothing  in  it  to  remind  her  of  the  poor, 
shabby  lodging  on  the  Surry  side  of  the  river,  which  was  her 
early  and  only  recollection  of  the  great  city.  At  the  end  of 
a  week  they  crossed  from  Dover  to  Ostend,  and  in  the  warm, 
golden  light  of  a  lovely  autumn  evening  arrived  in  quaint, 
old-world,  sleepy  Bruges.  Madame  Bonnemain  herself  met 
them  at  the  station — a  bright-eyed,  red-cheeked,  happy-faced 
little  woman,  on  whom  the  care  and  the  worry  of  life  ap- 
peared to  have  sat  but  lightly  during  all  these  hard  years. 
She  was  visibly  affected  at  meeting  with  her  old  school-friend. 
164 


ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL.  105 

"  Why,  Henrietta,  you  are  not  one  bit  clanged ;  you 
actually  look  younger  than  ever,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
when  the  first  agitation  of  the  meeting  wa«  over.  "  Posi- 
tively, you  look  as  young  as  you  did  in  Brussels  eight- 
and-twenty  years  ago.  Just  look  at  me.  Yes,  these  are 
my  daughters,  and  this  is  Gladys  Graham,  whom  I  am  so 
anxious  to  see  under  your  care." 

The  bright,  sharp  eyes  of  Madame  Bonnemain  took  in 
the  three  girls  at  one  comprehensive  glance ;  then  she  shook 
her  head  with  a  half-arch,  half-regretful  smile. 

"A  year  ago  such  a  prospect  would  have  seemed  to  lift  me 
to  paradise.  Times  have  been  hard  with  me,  Isabel — never 
harder  than  last  year;  but  it  is  always  the  darkest  hoar  be- 
fore the  dawn,  as  we  used  to  say  in  Brussels  when  the  days 
seemed  interminably  awful  just  before  vacation.  Two  car- 
riages we  must  have  for  so  many  women.  Ah  !  I  am  so  glad 
my  house  is  quite,  quite  empty." 

Beckoning  to  the  drivers  of  two  rather  rickety  old  car- 
riages, somewhat  resembling  in  form  the  old  English  chaise, 
she  put  all  the  girls  in  one,  and  seated  herself  beside  Mrs. 
Fordyce  in  the  other. 

"Now  we  can  talk.  The  children  will  be  happier  with- 
out us.  How  good,  how  very  good,  it  is  to  see  you  again, 
Isabel,  and  how  my  heart  warms  to  you  even  yet!" 

"  It  was  your  own  fault,  Henrietta,  that  we  did  not  meet 
oftener.  You  have  always  refused  my  invitations — some- 
times without  much  ceremony,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  rather 
reproachfully. 

"Pride,  my  dear — Scotch  pride;  that  is  what  kept  me 
vegetating  in  this  awful  place  when  my  heart  was  in  the 
Highlands.  Tell  me  about  Gairloch  and  Helensburgh,  and 
dear  old  Glasgow.  I  have  never  forgotten  it,  though  I  was 
too  proud  to  parade  my  poverty  in  its  streets." 

"I  will  tell  you  nothing,  Henrietta,  till  I  hear  what  all 
this  means.  Have  you  really  been  worse  off  lately?" 

"  My  dear,  for  twelve  months  I  have  not  had  a  creature  in 


166  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

my  house,"  said  Madame  Bonnemain,  and  her  face  grew 
graver  and  older  in  its  outline.  "  Positively  not  a  creature. 
Bruges  has  gone  down  as  a  place  for  English  residents,  and 
I  do  n't  wonder  at  it." 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,  Henrietta,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
quickly.  "  So  quaint — everything  about  it  a  picture." 

"  People  can't  live  on  quaintness,  my  love,  and  the  nar- 
rowness and  tyranny  of  it  is  intolerable.  I  hate  it.  When 
I  go  away  from  Bruges,  I  never  want  to  set  eyes  on  it  again 
as  long  as  1  live." 

Her  eyes  shone,  her  cheeks  grew  red,  her  little  mouth  set 
itself  in  quite  a  determined  curve.  Mrs.  Fordyce  perceived 
that  she  had  some  serious  umbrage  against  the  old  Flemish 
town ;  a  grudge  which  would  never  be  wiped  away.  And 
yet  it  was  very  picturesque,  with  its  gray  old  houses,  its 
quaint  spires,  its  flat  fields  spreading  away  from  the  canal, 
its  rows  of  stately  poplar-trees. 

"  There  is  nothing  really  more  terrible,  Isabel,  than  the 
English  life  in  a  foreign  town.  It  is  so  narrow,  so  petty — 
I  had  almost  said,  so  degraded.  I  should  not  have  taken 
your  pretty  ward  into  my  house  here  suppose  you  had 
prayed  me  to  do  it.  Nothing  could  possibly  be  worse  for  a 
young  girl.  She  could  not  escape  its  influence.  No;  I 
should  never  have  taken  her  here." 

"  Why  have  you  staid  so  long,  then,  Henrietta,  among 
such  undesirable  surroundings?" 

"  Because  it  is  cheap.  Thei-e  is  no  other  reason  in  this 
world  would  keep  anybody  in  Bruges,"  replied  Madame, 
promptly. 

"  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  why  you  can  not  take 
the  position  offered  you." 

Then  maclame  turned  her  bright  eyes,  overrunning  with 
laughter,  to  her  friend,  and  there  was  a  blush,  faint  and  rosy 
as  a  girl's,  on  her  cheek. 

lf  Because,  my  dear,  I  have  accepted  another  situation — a 
permanent  one.  I  am  going  to  marry  again." 


ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL.  167 

"  0,  Henrietta,  impossible  !" 

"  Quite  true,  my  clear." 

"Another  foreign  gentleman,  of  course?" 

"Why  of  course?  No,  I  am  going  to  rise  in  the  world. 
I  am  going  to  marry  an  English  colonel,  Isabel,  and  return 
to  my  own  land.  I  believe  I  told  him  that  was  my  chief 
reason  for  accepting  him  at  first." 

"But  not  at  last,"  hazarded  Mrs.  Fordyce,  with  a  teasing 
smile. 

"  Well,  no  ;  romance  is  not  dead  yet,  Isabel ;  but  I  shall 
tell  you  my  story  by  and  by.  Here  we  are." 

The  carriages  rattled  across  the  market-place,  and  drew 
up  before  one  of  the  quaint,  gray,  green- shuttered  houses. 
The  concierge  rose  lazily  from  his  chair  within  the  shadow 
of  the  court,  and  showed  himself  at  the  door.  The  ladies 
alighted,  and  were  ushered  into  the  small,  plain  abode  where 
Madame  Eonnemain  had  so  long  struggled  for  existence. 
All  were  charmed  with  it  and  with  her.  She  made  them  feel 
at  home  at  once.  Often  Gladys  looked  at  her,  and  felt  her 
heart  drawn  towards  her.  Yes,  with  that  bright,  sympa- 
thetic little  woman  she  could  be  happy  at  Bourhill.  But 
somewhat  late  that  night  Mrs.  Fordyce  came  into  her  room 
and  sat  down  by  her  bed. 

"My  dear,  are  you  asleep?  We  have  come  on  a  fruitless 
errand  ;  Madame  Bonnemain  can  not  come  to  you.  She  is 
going  to  be  married  'almost  immediately,'  so  what  are  we  to 
do  now?" 

"  It  is  a  great  disappointment,"  said  Gladys.  "  I  like  her 
so  much.  Yes,  what  are  we  to  do  now?" 

"You  must  just  come  to  us  for  another  winter,  Gladys; 
there  is  nothing  else  for  it." 

Gladys  lay  still  a  moment,  revolving  something  in  her 
mind. 

"  Would  it  be  proper  for  me  to  have  an  unmarried 
lady  to  live  with  me,  Mrs.  Fordyce?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"  Quite,  if  she  were  old  enough." 


168  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"How  old?" 

"Middle-aged,  at  least." 

"  Then  I  know  somebody  who  Avill  do ;  it  is  a  beauti- 
ful arrangement,"  cried  Gladys,  joyfully.  "  In  the  little  Fen 
village  where  we  lived,  my  father  and  I,  there  is  a  lady,  Miss 
Peck — we  lived  in  her  house.  She  was  very  kind  to  us,  and 
yet  so  poor;  yes,  I  think  she  would  come." 

"  Is  she  a  lady,  Gladys  ?" 

"  If  to  be  a  lady,  is  to  have  a  heart  of  gold,  which  never 
thinks  one  unselfish  thought,  she  is  one,  Mrs.  Fordyce,"  said 
Gladys,  warmly. 

"  These  are  the  attributes  of  a  lady,  of  course,  Gladys ;  but 
there  are  other  things,  my  dear,  which  must  be  considered. 
If  this  Miss  Peck  is  to  sit  at  your  table,  help  you  to  guide  your 
household,  and  be  your  constant  companion,  she  must  be  a 
very  superior  person." 

"  She  was  well  brought  up.  I  think  her  father  was  a  sur- 
geon in  Boston,"  said  Gladys;  and  these  words  at  once  .re- 
lieved the  lawyer's  wife. 

"  If  that  is  so,  she  may  be*  the  very  person  for  whom  we 
are  seeking.  You  are  sure  she  is  still  there?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gladys,  reluctantly.  "  I  wrote  to  her  in  the 
summer.  Mr.  Fordyce  allowed  me  to  send  her  some  money, 
but  not  in  charity;  it  was  the  payment  of  a  just  debt;  and 
when  she  replied,  I  knew  by  her  letter  that  she  was  still  very 
poor.  I  have  always  meant  to  have  her  come  to  me  at  Bour- 
hill,  but  it  will  be  delightful  if  she  can  come  altogether." 

"You  have  a  good  heart,  Gladys;  you  will  not  forget 
those  who  have  befriended  you." 

"  I  hope  not,  I  pray  not ;  only  sometimes,  I  am  afraid,  it 
is  harder  for  some  reasons  to  be  rich  than  poor."  These 
words  slightly  surprised  Mrs.  Fordyce,  though  she  did  not 
ask  an  explanation  of  them. 

"  Try  to  sleep,  my  child,  and  do  n't  worry  your  dear 
brain  with  plans,"  she  said,  and,  with  a  motherly  kiss,  re- 
turned to  the  little  salon  to  enjoy  the  rare  luxury  of  recalling 


ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL.  1G9 

old  memories  she  had  shared  with  the  friend  of  her  youth. 
They  sat  far  on  into  the  night,  and  before  they  parted  Mrs. 
Fordyce  was  in  full  possession  of  the  whole  story  of  these 
weary  and  sordid  years  through  which  Henrietta  Bonne- 
main  had  uncomplainingly  borne  her  burden  of  poverty  and 
care. 

"Then  the  colonel  turned  up,"  she  concluded,  with^  a 
curious  little  tender  smile.  "  Just  when  my  affairs  were  at  the 
lowest  ebb,  he  came  here  to  visit  an  old  regimental  friend 
who  lives  over  the  way.  So  we  met,  and,  both  being  unat- 
tached, we  drew  to  each  other,  and  next  month  we  are  to  be 
married." 

"Tell  me  about  him,  Henrietta;  tell  me  all  about  him.  I 
declare  I  am  as  silly  and  curious  as  a  school-girl — far  more 
curious  about  this  new  lover  of  yours  than  I  ever  was  about 
the  old." 

"  There  is  no  comparison  between  the  two,  Isabel — none 
at  all.  Captain  Bonnomain  was  a  good  man,  and  he  loved 
me  dearly;  but  it  is  nearly  always  a  mistake  to  marry  a 
foreigner.  It  seems  a  cruel  thing  to  say,  but  I  never  felt  to 
poor  Louis  as  I  felt  to  the  noble  English  gentleman  who  has 
done  me  so  great  an  honor." 

Her  e}^es  were  full  of  tears.  Mrs.  Fordyce  saw  that  she 
was  deeply  moved. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  he  sees  in  me.  He  is  so  handsome, 
so  noble,  and  so  rich.  He  might  marry  whom  he  willed.  He 
has  no  relatives  to  be  angry  over  it;  and  he  says,  if  it  pleases 
me,  we  can  buy  a  place  in  Scotland,  on  the  very  shores  of 
the  Gairloch.  Think  of  that,  Isabel ;  think  of  your  exiled 
Henrietta  returning  to  that.  God  is  too  good,  and  I  too 
happy." 

She  bent  her  head  and  wept;  and  these  tears  betrayed 
what  her  exile  had  been  to  the  Scotch  woman  s  heart. 

Mrs.  Fordyce  was  scarcely  less  moved.  It  was  a  pathetic 
and  beautiful  romance. 

The  Scotch  travelers  spent  a  happy  week  in  the  old  Flem- 


170  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

ish  town ;  and  Gladys,  who  had  the  artist's  quick  eye  for 
beauty  of  color  and  pieturesqueness  of  detail,  carried  away 
with  her  many  little  "  bits  "  to  be  finished  and  perfected  at 

home. 

Madame  Bonnemain  journeyed  with  them  to  Brussels; 

but  declined  their  invitation  to  accompany  them  to  Paris. 
They  would  all  meet,  she  said,  after  a  certain  happy  event 
was  over,  in  the  dear  land  over  the  sea. 

George  Fordyce  alone  joined  them  in  Paris,  and,  some- 
what to  his  aunt's  distress,  constituted  himself  at  once  as 
cavalier  to  Gladys.  Often,  very  often,  the  good  lady  was  on 
the  point  of  speaking  plainly  to  him,  but,  remembering  her 
husband's  warning,  decided  to  let  matters  take  their  course. 
She  watched  Gladys  narrowly,  however,  but  could  discover 
nothing  in  her  demeanor  but  a  frank  kindliness,  almost  such 
as  she  might  have  displayed  towards  a  brother.  George 
Fordyce,  who  had  really  learned  to  care  for  the  girl,  felt  that 
the  close  companionship  of  these  da}7s  in  Paris  had  not  ad- 
vanced his  cause.  He  did  not  know  that  her  mind  was  so 
engrossed  by  great  plans  and  high  ideals  for  the  life  of  the 
coming  winter  that  she  had  no  time  to  bestow  on  nearer  in- 
terests. He  was  a  prudent  youth,  and  decided  to  bide  his 
time. 

After  a  month's  pleasant  loitering  abroad  they  returned 
to  London.  George  took  his  cousins  home,  and  Mrs.  For- 
dyce went  with  Gladys  into  Lincolnshire. 

And  they  found  the  Fen  village  as  of  yore,  in  no  wise 
changed,  except  that  a  few  new  graves  had  been  added  to 
the  little  church-yard.  The  little  spinster  still  abode  in  her 
dainty  -cottage,  not  much  changed,  except  to  look  a  trifle 
more  aged  and  careworn.  The  fastidious  eye  of  the  lawyer's 
accomplished  wife  could  detect  no  flaw  in  the  demeanor  of 
Miss  Peck,  and  she  added  her  entreaties  to  those  of  Gladys. 
In  truth,  the  poor,  little  careworn  woman  was  not  hard  to 
persuade.  She  had  no  ties  save  those  of  memory  to  bind 


ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL. 


171 


her  to  the  Fen  country,  so  she  gave  her  promise  freely,  ac- 
cepting her  new  home  as  a  gift  from  God. 

"  I  shall  come  one  more  time  here  only,''  Gladj-s  said. 
'•To  take  papa  away.  Mr.  Fordyce  promised  to  arrange  it 
for  me.  He  must  sleep  with  his  own  people ;  and  when  he 
is  in  the  old  churchyard  I  shall  feel  at  home  in  Bourhill." 

All  these  things  were  done  befoi'e  the  year  was  out ;  and 
Christmas  saw  Gladys  Graham  settled  in  her  new  home, 
ready  and  eager  to  take  up  the  charge  she  believed  God  had 
intrusted  to  her — the  stewardship  of  wealth,  to  be  used  for 
his  glory. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


this  time  nothing  had  been  heard  of  Liz. 
She  was  no  longer  known  in  her  old  haunts  ; 
was  almost  forgotten,  indeed,  save  by  one  or 
two.  Among  those  w7ho  remained  faithful  to 
her  memory  was  the  melancholy  Teen,  and  she 
thought  of  her  hour  by  hour,  as  she  sat  at  her  monotonous 
work  ;  thought  of  her  with  a  great  wonder  in  her  soul. 
Sometimes  a  little  bitterness  intermingled,  and  she  felt  her- 
self aggrieved  at  having  been  so  shabbily  treated  by  her  old 
chum.  She  had  in  her  quiet  way  instituted  a  very  thorough 
inquiry  into  all  the  circumstances  of  her  flight,  and  had  kept 
a  watchful  eye  on  every  channel  from  which  the  faintest 
light  was  likely  to  shine  upon  the  mystery;  but  at  the 
end  of  six  months  it  was  still  unsolved.  Liz  was  as  irrev- 
ocably lost,  apparently,  as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and 
swallowed  her. 

Teen  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Liz  had  veritably 
emigrated  to  London,  and  was  there  assiduously,  and  proba- 
bly successfully,  wooing  fame  and  fortune.  Sometimes  the 
weary  burden  of  her  toil  was  beguiled  by  dreams  of  a  bright 
day  on  which  Liz,  grown  a  great  lady,  but  still  true  to  the 
172 


HELPING  HAND.  173 

old  friendship,  should  come,  perhaps  in  a  coach  and  pair,  up 
the  squalid  sti'eet,  and  remove  the  little  seamstress  to  be  a 
sharer  in  her  glory.  In  one  particular  Teen  was  entirely  and 
persistently  loyal  to  her  friend.  She  believed  that  she  had 
kept  herself  pure ;  and  when  doubts  had  been  thrown  on  that 
theory  by  others  who  believed  in  her  less,  she  had  closed  their 
tattling  mouths  with  language  such  as  they  were  not  accus- 
tomed to  hear  from  her  usually  reticent  lips.  These  gossip- 
mongers,  who  flourish  in  the  quarters  of  the  poor  and  rich 
alike,  speedily  learned  that  it  was  just  as  well  not  to  mention 
the  name  of  Liz  Hepburn  to  Teen  Balfour.  One  day  a  vis- 
itor in  the  shape  of  a  handsomely-dressed  young  lady  did 
come  to  the  little  seamstress's  door.  Teen  gave  a  great  start 
when  she  saw  the  tall  figure,  and  her  face  flushed  all  over. 
In  the  semi-twilight  which  always  prevails  on  the  staircases 
of  these  great,  grim  "  lands"  of  houses,  she  had  imagined  her 
dream  to  come  true. 

"  0,  it's  you,  miss,"  she  said,  recognizing  Gladys  Graham 
at  last.  "  I  thought  it  was  somebody  else.  Ye  can  come  in 
if  ye  like." 

The  bidding  was  ungracious — the  manner  of  it  as  repel- 
lent as  of  yore.  But  Gladys,  not  easily  repulsed,  followed 
the  little  seamstress  acroSs  the  threshold  and  closed  the  door. 
The  heavy,  close  smell  of  the  place  made  a  slight  faintness 
come  over  her,  and  she  was  glad  to  sink  into  the  nearest 
chair. 

"Do  you  never  open  your  window?  It  is  very  close 
in  here." 

"  Xo,  I  never  open  it.  It  takes  me  a'  my  time  to  keep 
warm  as  it  is.  There  's  a  perfect  gale  blaws  in,  ony  boo.  at 
the  chinks.  Jist  pit  your  hand  at  the  window,  an'  ye  '11 
see." 

Gladys  glanced  pitifully  round  the  place,  and  then  fixed 
her  lovely,  compassionate  eyes  on  the  figure  of  the  little 
seamstress  as  she  took  up  her  position  again  on  the  stool  by 
the  fire  and  lifted  her  work. 


174  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  You.  look  just  as  if  you  had  been  sitting  there  con- 
tinuously since  I  saw  you  last,"  Gladys  said,  involuntarily. 

"So  I  have,  maistly,"  replied  Teen,  dully;  "an1  will  sit 
or  they  cairry  me  oot." 

"  O,  I  hope  not.  Indeed  you  will  not.  Have  you  had  a 
hard  summer?" 

"JVIiddlin'.  It's  been  waur.  Five  weeks  in  July  I  had 
nae  wark ;  but  I  've  been  langer  than  that,  in  winter  too. 
In  summer  it 's  no  sae  bad.  When  you  're  cauld,  you  feel  the 
want  o'  meat  waur." 

"Have  you  really  sometimes  not  had  food?"  asked 
Gladys,  in  a  shocked  voice. 

"  "Whiles.  Do  you  ken  onything  abootLiz?"  she  asked, 
suddenty,  breaking  off  and  lifting  her  large,  sunken  eyes  to 
the  sweet  face  opposite  to  her. 

"No;  that  is  one  of  the  things  I  came  about  to-day. 
Have  you  not  heard  anything  of  her?" 

"No  a  cheep.  Naebody  kens.  I  gaed  up  to  Colquhoun 
Street  one  day  to  ask  Walter,  but  he  didna  gie  me  muckle 
cuttin'.  I  say,  he's  gettin'  on  thonder."  She  flashed  a 
peculiar,  sly  glance  at  Gladys,  and  under  it  the  latter's  sensi- 
tive color  rose. 

"  I  always  knew  he  would,"  she  replied,  quietly.  "And 
he  has  not  heard  anything,  either?  Do  you  ever  see  her 
father  and  mother  ?" 

"  No ;  but  it 's  the  same  auld  sang.  They  're  no  carin'  a 
button  whaur  Liz  is,"  said  Teen,  calmly. 

"  Have  you  no  idea?"  asked  Gladys. 

"Not  the  least.  I  may  think  what  I  like;  but  I  dinna 
ken  a  thing,"  replied  the  girl,  candidly. 

"  What  do  }Tou  think,  then  ?  You  knew  her  so  intimately. 
If  you  would  help  me,  we  might  do  something  together," 
said  Gladys,  eagerly. 

Teen  was  prevented  answering  for  a  moment  by  a  fit  of 
coughing,  a  dry,  hacking  cough,  which  racked  her  weary 


HELPING  HAND.  175 

frame,  and  brought  a  dark,  Blow  color  into  her  cadaver- 
ous cheek. 

"  Well,  I  think  she's  in  London,"  she  replied,  at  length. 
"  But  it 's  only  a  guess.  She  '11  turn  up  some  day,  nae  doot ; 
we  maun  just  wait  till  she  does." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  Will  you  let  me  help  you?  I 
am  living  in  my  own  home  now  in  Ayrshire.  It  is  lovely 
there  just  now ;  almost  as  mild  as  summer.  Won't  you  come 
down  and  pay  me  a  little  visit  ?  It  would  do  you  a  great 
deal  of  good." 

Teen  laid  down  her  heavy  seam,  and  stared  at  Gladys 
in  genuine  amazement;  then  gave  a  short,  strange  laugh. 

"  Ye  're  takin'  a  len'  o'  me,  surely,"  she  said.  "  AVhat  wad 
ye  dae  if  I  took  ye  at  your  word  ?" 

"  I  mean  what  I  sa}'.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  anyhow, 
about  a  great  many  things.  How  soon  could  }TOU  come? 
Have  you  any  more  work  than  this  to  do?" 

"  No;  I  tak'  this  hame  the  nicht,"  replied  Teen.  "  I  can 
come  when  I  like." 

"  If  I  stay  in  town  all  night,  would  you  go  down  with  me 
to-morrow?" 

II  Maybe ;  but,  I  say,  what  do  ye  mean  ?" 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and,  with  her  thin 
face  between  her  hands,  peered  scrutinizingiy  into  her  vis- 
itor's face.  There  was  a  great  contrast  between  them,  the 
rich  girl  and  the  poor;  each  the  representative  of  a  class  so 
widely  separated  that  the  gulf  seems  impassable  always. 

II 1  do  n't  mean  anything   except  that   I  want  to  help 
Avorking  girls.      I  so  wished  for  Liz,  she  was  so  clever  and 
shrewd.     She  could  have  told   me  just   what  to  do.     You 
can  help  me  if  you  like.     You  must  take  her  place,  and  at 
Bourhill  you  will  have  a  rest — nothing  to  do  but  eat  and 
sleep  and  walk  in  the  country.     You  will  lose  that  dreadful 
paleness  which  has  always  haunted  me  whenever  I  thought 
of  you." 


176  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

A  curious  tremor  was  visible  on  the  face  of  the  little 
seamstress;  a  movement  of  every  muscle,  and  her  nerveless 
fingers  could  not  grasp  the  needle. 

"  A'  richt,"  she  replied,  rather  huskily.  "  I'  11  come. 
What  time  the  morn  ?" 

"What  time  can  you  be  ready?  It  is  quite  the  same  to 
me  when  I  go.  I  have  nothing  to  do." 

"  Well,  I  can  be  ready  ony  time  efter  twelve ;  but  I  say, 
what  if,  when  I  come  back,  they'  ve  gien  my  wark  to  some- 
body else.  That 's  certain  ;  ye  should  see  the  crood  waitin' 
for  it — fechtin'  for  it  almost  like  wild-cats." 

Gladys  shivered,  and  heavy  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  as 
she  rose  from  the  chair. 

"  Never  mind  that.  It  will  be  my  concern — that  is,  if  you 
are" willing  to  trust  me." 

Teen  rose  also,  and  for  a  moment  their  eyes  met  in  a 
steady  look. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  trust  you,  though  I  diuna,  for  the  life 
o'  me,  ken  what  you  mean." 

There  was  no  demonstration  of  gratitude  on  the  part  of 
the  little  seamstress ;  Gladys  even  felt  a  trifle  chilled  and  dis- 
heartened thinking  of  her  after  she  had  left  the  house.  But 
the  gratitude  was  there.  That  still,  cold,  self-constrained 
heart,  being  awakened  to  life,  never  slept  again.  Both  lived 
to  bless  that  bleak  November  day  when  the  first  compact  had 
been  made  between  them. 

From  the  city  Gladys  went  by  car  to  Kelvinside,  and 
walked  up  to  Bellairs  Crescent.  Habit  is  very  strong ;  not 
yet  could  the  girl,  so  long  used  to  the  strictest  and  most 
meager  economies,  bear  to  indulge  herself  in  small  luxuries. 
The  need  of  the  world  was  always  with  her.  She  thought 
always  of  the  many  to  whom  such  small  sums  meant  riches. 
She  was  not  expected  at  Bellairs  Crescent,  and  she  found  her 
friends  entertaining  at  afternoon  tea.  Some  one  was  singing 
when  she  reached  the  drawing-room  door,  and  when  the  song 
was  over,  she  slipped  in  surprised,  and  a  little  taken  aback  to 


HELPING  BAND.  177 

see  so  many  people  in  the  room.  Anumberof  them  were  known 
to  her;  there  had  been  many  pleasant  gatherings  at  Troon 
in  the  summer,  and  as  was  natural,  Miss  Graham,  of  Bour- 
hill,  with  her  interesting  personality  and  her  romantic  his- 
tory, had  received  a  great  deal  of  attention  from  the 
Fordyces'  large  circle  of  friends. 

The  warmth  of  the  greeting  accorded  to  her  made  the 
lovely  color  flush  high  in  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  sparkle 
with  added  brilliance. 

"  Yes,  1  came  up  only  at  noon.  I  have  been  in  the  city 
since  then,"  she  replied,  in  answer  to  many  questions.  "  O, 
how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Fordyce?  I  did  not  expect  to  see 
you." 

"Nor  I  you,"  said  George  Fordyce,  impressively.  "I 
was  dragged  here  by  Julia  against  my  will,  and  this  is  the 
reward  of  fraternal  virtue." 

It  was  a  daring  speech,  and  the  manner  conveyed  still  more 
than  the  words.  The  color  broke  again  over  her  face  in  a 
wavering  flood,  and  her  eyes  down-dropped  under  his  ardent 
gaze.  These  things  were  noted  by  several  present,  and  con- 
clusions rapidly  drawn. 

"  You  must  not  talk  nonsense  to  me,"  she  said,  recovering 
herself  and  speaking  with  her  quaint,  delightful  dignity. 
"  Eemember  your  promise  at  Paris." 

"  What  promise?     Did  I  make  one?" 

"You  know  you  did,"  she  said,  reproachfully.  "We 
agreed  to  be  friendly,  and  between  friends  there  should  never 
be  any  foolish  compliments." 

"  Well,  I  can't  keep  faith  ;  it 's  impossible  to  see  you  and 
remember  any  such  promise;  besides,  it's  sober  truth,"  he 
replied,  growing  bolder  still.  "  Let  me  get  you  some  tea. 
Isn't  it  rather  lively  here?  Doesn't  it  make  you  regret 
having  buried  yourself  in  the  backwoods  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  the  season?" 

"No;  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  season,"  replied 
Gladys,  truthfully.  "  Yes,  you  may  bring  mo  some  tea,  if 

12 


178  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

you  do  n't  stay  talking  after  you  have  brought  it.  How 
beautiful  Clara  is  looking  to-day !" 

"  Clara — yes ;  she 's  a  handsome  girl,"  said  George,  regard- 
ing his  cousin  with  but  a  languid  approval.  She  looked  very 
handsome  and  stately  in  her  trained  gown  of  brown  velvet, 
with  a  touch  of  yellow  at  the  throat;  but  her  expression  was 
less  bright  than  usual.  The  two  who  spoke  of  her  at  the 
moment  did  not  guess  that  they  were  responsible  for  the  sud- 
den change  from  gay  to  grave  in  her  demeanor. 

"  0,  Gladys,  we  were  coming  down  on  Saturday,  Len  and 
I,"  whispered  Mina  at  her  elbow.  "  But  now  you  will  stay, 
and  that  will  do  as  well.  How  are  you  supporting  life  down 
there  just  now?  and  how  is  that  sweet  little  oddity,  Miss 
Caroline  Peck  ?" 

"If  you  call  her  an  oddity,  Mina,  I  can  not  talk  to  you," 
said  Gladys,  with  a  laugh  and  a  shake  of  the  head.  "  I  am 
going  home  to-morrow.  Could  Leonard  and  you  not  go  down 
with  me?" 

"  Going  home  to-morrow !  Not  if  we  know  it.  The  people 
are  just  going  away,  and  we  shall  have  a  delightful,  cozy 
chat.  Here's  that  tiresome  George;  but  isn't  he  looking 
handsome?  Eeally  one  is  proud  to  have  such  a  cousin." 

It  was  now  half-past  five,  and  the  company  began  to  dis- 
perse. In  about  ten  minutes  there  were  no  guests  left  but 
Gladys  and  the  two  cousins  from  Pollockshields. 

"Now  I  can  talk  to  you,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  For- 
dyce.  "  Why  did  n't  you  let  us  know  you  were  coming  to 
town,  and  one  of  the  girls,  at  least,  would  have  come  to 
meet  you  ?" 

"  I  had  something  to  do  in  the  city,  dear  Mrs.  Fordyce," 
replied  Gladys.  "There  is  something  troubling  me  a  good 
deal  just  now." 

"  What  is  it?  Nothing  must  be  allowed  to  trouble  Miss 
Graham,  of  Bourhill.  Her  star  should  always  be  in  the 
ascendant,"  said  Mina,  banteringly. 

"  It  is  a  mystery — a  lost  girl,"  said  Gladys,  rather  gravely. 


HELPING  HAND. 


179 


"  Some  one  1  knew  in  the  old  life,  who  has  disappeared,  and 
nobody  knows  where  she  has  gone.'' 

"How  exciting!  Has  she  not  gone  '  ower  the  border  an' 
awa'.  wi' Jock  o'  Hazeldene?'  "  asked  Mina.  "Do  tell  us 
about  her.  What  is  her  name? " 

"  Lizzie  Hepburn.  She  is  the  sister  of  Walter,  who  was 
with  my  uncle.''  said  Gladys,  gravely.  "  It  is  the  strangest 
thing." 

"  George,  my  dear,  look  what  you  are  doing.  O,  my 
beautiful  gown  !" 

It  was  Mrs.  Ford^yce  who  thus  turned  the  conversation. 
Her  nephew,  handing  the  cup  of  tea  she  had  never  found 
time  to  drink  while  her  guests  were  present,  had  deliberately 
spilled  it  on  the  front  of  her  tea-gown. 

The  incident  was  laughed  over  in  the  end;  and  the  only 
person  present  who  thought  of  associating  his  awkwardness 
with  the  name  Gladys  had  mentioned  was  Mina,  the  shrewd- 
est of  them  all.  But  though  she  had  many  a  strange  and 

~  •/  O 

anxious  thought  on  the  subject,  she  held  her  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

REAL  AND   IDEAL. 

5V.EK  had  the  little  seamstress  been  out  of  Glas- 
gow. Even  the  Fair  holidays,  signal  for  an 
almost  universal  exodus  "  doon  the  water.'' 
brought  no  emancipation  for  her.  It  may  be 
imagined  that  such  a  sudden  and  unexpected 
invitation  to  the  country  filled  her  with  the  liveliest  antici- 
pation. By  eight  o'clock  that  night  she  had  finished  her 
pile  of  work,  and  immediately  made  haste  with.it  to  the 
warehouse  which  employed  her.  When  she  had  received 
her  meager  payment  and  had  another  bundle  rather  con- 
temptuously pushed  towards  her  by  the  hard-visaged  fore- 
woman, she  experienced  quite  a  little  thrill  of  pride  in  refus- 
ing it. 

"No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Galbraith,  I  dinna  need  ony  mair 
the  day,"   she  said,   and  her  face  flushed   under  the  fore- 
woman's  strong,  steady  stare. 
"O,  what's  up?" 

"  I  'm  gaun  .into  the  country  to  visit  a  lady,"  said  Teen, 
proudly. 

"O,  all  right,  there  's  a  hundred  waiting  on  the  job;  but, 

180 


R'EAL  AND  IDEAL.  181 

do  n't  expect  to  be  taken  on  the  moment  you  like  to  show 
your  face.  We  can  afford  to  be  as  independent  as  you." 

"  I  do  n't  expect  to  need  it,"  said  Teen,  promptly,  though 
in  truth  her  heart  sank  a  little  as  she  heard  these  words  of  doom. 

If  Gladys  failed  her,  she  knew  of  no  other  place  in  that 
great  and  evil  city  where  she  could  earn  her  bread.  She 
even  felt  a  trifle  despondent  as  she  retraced  her  steps  to  her 
garret ;  but  trying  to  throw  it  off,  she  set  herself  imme- 
diately on  entering  the  house  to  inspect  her  wardrobe.  This 
was  a  most  interesting  occupation,  and  after  much  delibera- 
tion she  took  her  best  black  skirt  to  pieces,  and  proceeded  to 
hang  it  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  latest  fashion.  Then  she 
had  her  hat  to  re-trim,  and  a  piece  of  clean  lace  to  sew  on 
her  neck-band.  At  four  o'clock  her  last  candle  expired  in 
its  socket,  and  she  had  to  go  to  bed.  At  the  gray  dawn  she 
•was  astir  again,  and  long  before  the  brougham  had  left  Bel- 
lairs  Crescent  with  Gladys,  Teen  was  waiting,  tin-box  in 
hand,  on  the  platform  of  the  Central  Station. 

Mrs.  Fordyee  accompanied  Gladys  to  the  station,  and 
when  Teen  saw  them  she  felt  a  wild  desire  to  run  away. 
Gladys  Graham,  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the  little  attic,  talking 
familiarly  of  the  Hepburns,  and  Gladys  Graham  outside, 
were  two  very  different  beings.  Gladys  glanced  sharply 
round,  and,  espying  her,  smiled  reassuringly,  and  advanced 
with  frank,  outstretched  hand. 

"Ah,  there  you  are.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
this  is  Teen.  Christina  Balfour.  I  must  begin  to  call  yon 
Christina.  1  think  it  is  much  prettier.  Is  n't  this  a  pleasant 
day?  The  country  will  be  looking  lovely." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  smiled  and  bowed  graciously  to  the  seam- 
stress, but  did  not  offer  her  hand.  Her  manner  was  kind, 
but  distant;  her  very  smile  measured  the  gulf  between 
them.  Teen  felt  it  just  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  spoken  it  in 
words,  and  felt  also  intuitively  that  her  presence  there  was 
not  quite  approved  of  by  the  lawyer's  wife.  That,  indeed, 
was  true.  There  had  been  a  long  and  rather  warm  discus- 


182  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

sion  over  the  little  seamstress  that  morning  in  Bellairs  Cres- 
cent; and  Mrs.  Fordyce  had  discovered  that,  with  all  her 
gentleness  and  simplicity,  Gladys  was  not  a  person  to  aban- 
don a  project  on  which  she  had  set  her  heart. 

"  My  dear  Gladys,"  she  took  the  opportunity  of  whisper- 
ing when  Teen  was  out  of  hearing,  "  I  am  more  than  ever 
perplexed.  She  is  not  even  interesting — nothing  could  be 
more  hopelessly  vulgar  and  commonplace." 

Gladys  never  spoke. 

"Do  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do  with  her?"  she  pur- 
sued, with  distinct  anxiety  in  her  manner. 

"  Do  n't  let  us  speak  about  it,  Mrs.  Fordyce,"  said  Gladys, 
rather  coldly.  "  It  is  impossible  you  can  understand.  I 
have  been  like  her.  I  know  what  her  life  is.  You  must  let 
me  alone." 

-"I  am  afraid  you  are  going  to  be  eccentric,  my  dear,'' 
said  Mrs.  Fordyce.  "  I  can  not  help  regretting  that  Madame 
Bonnemain  was  prevented  coming  to  Bourhill.  She  would 
have  set  her  foot  down  on  this." 

"  Then  she  would  have  been  mistress  of  Bourhill,"  an- 
swered Gladys,  with  a  faint  smile,  "and  we  should  certainly 
have  disagreed." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  character  about  you,  Gladys ; 
I  am  afraid  you  are  rather  an  imposition.  To  look  at  you, 
one  would  think  you  as  gentle  as  a  lamb." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Fordyce,  do  n't  make  me  out  such  a  terrible 
person,"  said  Gladys,  quickly.  "  Is  it  so  odd  that  I  should 
wish  to  brighten  life  a  little  for  those  whom  I  know  have 
had  so  very  little  brightness?" 

"No;  it  is  not  your  aim,  only  your  method,  I  object  to, 
my  dear.  It  will  never  do  to  fill  Bourhill  with  such  people. 
But  I  will  say  no  more.  Experience  will  teach  you  expe- 
diency and  discretion." 

"  We  shall  see,"  replied  Gladys,  with  a  laugh ;  and  for  the 


REAL  AND  IDEAL. 

fii'st  time  she  experienced  a  sense  of  relief  at  parting  with 
her  kind  friend. 

Mrs.  Fordyce  was  a  kind-hearted  woman,  and  did  a  great 
many  good  deeds,  though  on  strictly  conventional  lines. 
She  was  the  clever  organizer  of  Church  charities,  the  capable 
head  of  the  Ladies'  Provident  and  Dorcas  Society,  to  which 
she  grudged  neither  time  nor  money;  but  she  did  not  be- 
lieve in  personal  contact  with  the  very  poor,  nor  in  the 
power  or  efficacy  of  individual  sympathy  and  effort.  She 
thought  a  great  deal  about  Gladys  that  day,  pondering  and 
puzzling  over  her  action — a  trifle  nettled,  if  it  must  be  told, 
at  the  calm,  quiet  manner  in  which  her  disapproval  had  been 
ignored.  Gladys  was,  indeed,  proving  herself  a  very  capa- 
ble and  independent  mistress  of  Bourhill. 

Meanwhile  the  two  girls  whom  fortune  had  so  differently 
favored,  journeyed  together  into  Ayrshire.  A  strange  shy- 
ness seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  Teen ;  she  sat  bolt 
upright  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  clutching  her  tin  box, 
and  looking  half- scared,  half-defiant.  Even  the  red  feather 
in  her  hat  seemed  to  wear  an  aggressive  air.  In  her  soul  she 
fervently  rued  the  step  she  had  taken,  and  thought  with 
longing  of  her  own  little  room,  and  with  affectionate  regret 
of  the  bundle  she  had  so  proudly  returned  to  Mrs.  Galbraith. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Teen  ?  You  don't  look  at 
all  happy,"  said  Gladys,  growing  a  trifle  embarrassed  by  the 
continued  silence. 

"I'm  no;  I  wish  I  hadna  come,"  was  the  flat  reply, 
which  made  the  sensitive  color  rise  in  the  fair  cheek  of 
Gladys. 

"  O  no,  you  do  n't.  You  are  only  shy.  Wait  till  you 
have  seen  Bourhill.  You  will  think  it  the  loveliest  place  in 
the  world,"  she  said,  cheerfully. 

"  Maybe,"  answered  Teen,  doubtfully.  "  I  feel  gey  queer 
the  noo  ony  hoo." 

This  was  not  encouraging.     Gladys  became  silent  also, 


184  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

and  both  felt  relieved  when  the  train  stopped  at  Mauchline 
Station. 

The  girl,  whose  only  idea  of  the  country  was  her  ac- 
quaintance with  the  straight,  conventional  arrangement  of 
city  parks  and  gardens,  looked  about  her  with  genuine 
wonder. 

"  My !"  she  said,  as  they  crossed  over  the  little  foot-bridge 
at  the  station,  "  sic  a  room  folk  have  here.  Are  there  nae 
hooses  ava?'' 

"  O,  lots,"  replied  Gladys,  quite  gayly,  relieved  to  see  even 
a  faint  interest  exhibited  by  her  guest.  "We  shall  drive 
through  Mauchline  presently;  it  is  such  a  pretty,  quaint 
little  town." 

A  very  dainty  little  phaeton,  in  charge  of  an  exceedingly 
smart  young  groom,  waited  at  the  station-gate  for  Miss 
Graham.  Teen  regarded  it  and  her  with  open-mouthed 
amazement.  Again  it  seemed  impossible  that  this  gracious, 
self-possessed  lady,  giving  her  orders  so  calmly,  and  accord- 
ing so  well  in  every  respect  with  her  changed  fortunes, 
could  be  the  same  girl  who  accompanied  Liz  and  herself  to 
the  Ariel  Music  Hall  not  much  more  than  a  year  ago. 

"  My !"  she  said  again,  when  Gladys  took  the  reins  and 
the  pony  started  off;  "  it's  grand,  but  queer." 

c;  It  is  all  very  nice,  I  think,"  said  Gladys,  whimsically. 
"  Did  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Macintyre,  who  used  to  live  in  the 
Wynd,  is  at  the  lodge  at  Bourhill  ?  But  perhaps  you  did  not 
know  Mrs.  Macintyre?" 

"  I  have  heard  o'  her  frae  Liz,"  Teen  replied.  "  But  I 
didna  ken  that  she  was  here." 

"  She  only  came  a  month  ago.  She  is  a  great  treasure  to 
me.  I  wonder  if  you  have  thought  why  I  wished  you  to 
come  here." 

"  I  Ve  wondered.     Ye  can  tell  me  if  ye  like,"  said  Teen. 

"Well,  you  see  I  have  always  been  sorry  about  you, 
somehow,  ever  since  that  day  I  saw  you  in  the  H«pburns' 
house.  I  really  never  forgot  your  pale  face.  I  want  you 


PEAL  AND  IDEAL.  185 

here  for  your  own  sake,  first,  to  try  and  make  you  look 
brighter  and  healthier,  and  I  want  your  advice  and  help 
about  something  I  am  more  interested  in  than  anything." 

"My  advice  an'  help!"  repeated  Teen,  almost  blankly, 
yet  secretly  flattered  and  pleased.  The  idea  that  her  advice 
and  help  should  be  desired  by  any  was  something  so  entirely 
new  that  she  may  be  excused  being  almost  overcome  by  it. 

"Yes,"  answered  Gladys,  with  a  nod.  "It's  about  the 
girls — the  girls  you  and  I  know  about  in  Glasgow,  who  have 
such  a  poor  time,  and  are  surrounded  with  so  much  tempta- 
tion. Do  you  remember  that  night,  long  ago,  when  Lizzie 
Hepburn  and  you  took  me  to  the  Ariel  Music  Hall?" 

"Yes,  I  mind  it  fine.  I  was  thinkin'  o't  no  a  meenit 
syne." 

"  Well,  do  n't  you  think  that  the  girls  we  saw  there  might 
have  some  place  a  little  pleasanter  and  safer  for  them  to  be 
in  than  a  music  hall?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Teen,  with  unwonted  seriousness.  "  It 's 
no  a  guid  place.  I  've  kent  twa  three  that  gaed  to  the  bad, 
an'  they  met  their  bad  company  there.  But  what  can  lassies 
dae?  Tak'  Liz,  for  instance,  or  me!  Had  we  onythiug  to 
keep  us  at  haine?  The  streets,  or  the  music  hall,  or  the 
dauciu',  ony  o'  them  was  better  than  sittin'  in  the  hoose." 

"  0, 1  know.  Have  I  not  thought  of  it  all?"  cried  Gladys 
with  a  great  mournfulness.  "But  do  n't  you  think  if  they 
had  some  pleasant  place  of  their  own  where  they  could  meet 
together  of  an  evening,  and  read  or  work  or  amuse  them- 
selves, they  would  be  happier?" 

"  There  are  some  places — I  ken  some  lassies  that  belang  to 
Christian  Associations.  Liz  an'  me  gaed  twice  or  thrice 
wi'  some  o'  the  members,  but — " 

"But  what?"  asked  Gladys,  bending  forward  with  keen 
interest. 

"  We  didna  like  it.  There  was  ower  muckle  preachin', 
and  some  o'  the  ladies  looked  at  us  as  if  we  were  dirt,"  re- 
sponded Teen,  candidly.  "Ye  should  a  heard  Liz  when  we 


186  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

cam'  oot.  It  was  as  guid  as  a  play  to  hear  her  imitatin' 
them." 

Gladys  looked  thoughtful  and  a  trifle  distressed.  Curi- 
ously, at  the  moment  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
many  societies  and  associations  with  which  Mrs.  Fordyce 
was  connected,  and  of  her  demeanor  that  day  at  the  Central 
Station ;  an  exact  exemplification  of  Teen's  plain-spoken 
objection. 

"Liz  said  she  was  as  guid  as  them,  an'  she  wadna  be 
patronized ;  an'  that 's  what  prevents  plenty  mair  frae  gaun. 
A  lot  gang  just  to  serve  themselves,  because  they  get  a  lot 
frae  the  ladies.  My,  ye  can  get  onything  oot  o'  them  if  ye 
ken  hoo  to  work  them." 

This  was  a  very  gross  view  of  the  case  which  could  not 
but  jar  upon  Gladys,  though  she  was  conscious  that  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  it.  Somehow,  in  the  light  of 
Teen  Balfour's  unvarnished  estimate  of  philanthropic  en- 
deavor, her  dreams  seemed  to  become  all  at  once  impossible 
of  fulfillment. 

"  I  do  not  think  they  mean,  the  ladies,  to  patronize.  Do 
you  not  think  the  girls  imagine,  or  at  least  exaggerate?" 

"Maybe;  but  Susan  Greenlees,  a  lassie  I  ken  that  works 
in  a  print-mill,  tel  't  me  one  o'  them  reproved  her  for 
haein'  a  long  white  ostrich  feather  in  her  hat;  and  Susan, 
she  just  says,  {  Naebody  askit  you  to  pay  for  it,'  an'  left." 

Gladys  realpsed  into  silence;  and  Teen,  all  unconscious  of 
the  cold  water  she  had  thrown  so  copiously  on  a  bright  en- 
thusiasm, sat  back  leisurely,  and  looked  about  her  inter- 
estedly. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Gladys,  at  length  rousing  herself  up, 
though  with  an  evident  effort ;  "  and  there  is  Mrs.  Macintyre 
at  the  gate.  You  have  never  seen  her,  you  say.  Has  n't  she 
a  nice,  kind  face?" 

Gladys  drew  rein  when  they  had  passed  through  the  gate, 
and  introduced  the  two.  Mrs.  Macintyre,  who  looked  like  a 
different  being  in  her  warm,  gray  tweed  gown,  neat  cap,  and 


REAL  AXD  IDEAL. 


187 


black  apron,  gave  the  pale  city  girl  a  hearty  hand-shake,  and 
prophesied  that  Bourhill  air  would  soon  bring  a  rose  into  her 
cheek.  Gladys  nodded,  and  said  she  hoped  so;  and  then 
drove  on  to  the  house.  And  when  they  went  up  the  long 
flight  of  steps  and  into  the  wide,  warm,  beautiful  hall.  Teen's 
shyness  returned  to  her,  and  if  it  had  been  possible  she  would 
have  turned  and  fled. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   UNEXPECTED. 

T  did  not  occur  to  Gladys  to  give  her  guest 
quarters  at  the  lodge  beside  Mrs.  Macintyrc, 
where,  it  might  have  been  thought,  she  would 
be  more  at  home.  Having  invited  her  to  Bour- 
hill,she  treated  her  in  all  respects  like  any  other 
guest.  Teen,  after  the  first  fit  of  shyness  wore  off,  accepted 
it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  conducted  herself  in  a  calm 
and  undisturbed  manner,  which  secretly  astonished  Gladys. 
All  the  while,  however,  her  new  surroundings  and  experiences 
made  a  profound  impression  on  the  awakened  mind  of  the 
city  girl.  Nothing  escaped  the  keen  vision  of  her  great, 
dark  eyes ;  every  detail  of  the  beautiful  old  house  was  pho- 
tographed on  her  memory.  She  could  have  told  how  man}' 
chairs  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  described  every  pic- 
ture on  the  dining-room  walls.  Between  her  and  little  Miss 
Peck,  the  brisk,  happy-hearted  spinster,  who  appeared  to 
have  taken  a  new  lease  of  life,  there  was  speedily  established 
a  very  good  understanding,  which  was  also  a  source  of 
amazement  to  Gladys.  She  had  anticipated  exactly  the 
reverse. 

"  My  dear,  she  is  most  interesting,"  said  Miss  Peck,  when 
188 


THE  UNEXPECTED.  180 

the  first  evening  was  over  and  Teen  had  gone  to  bed,  not  to 
sleep,  but  to  lie  enjoying  the  luxury  of  a  down-bed  and 
dainty  linen,  and  pondering  on  this  wonderful  thing  that 
had  happened  to  her.  "  Most  interesting !  What  depths  in 
her  eyes — what  self-possession  in  her  demeanor !  My  dear, 
you  can  make  anything  of  that  girl." 

Miss  Peck  was  given  to  romancing  and  enthusiasm ;  but 
the  contrast  between  her  opinion  and  that  expressed  by  Mrs. 
Fordyce  made  Gladys  smile.  She  did  not  feel  herself  as  yet 
very  particularly  drawn  towards  her  guest,  whose  reserve  of 
manner  was  sometimes  as  trying  as  her  outspokenness  on 
other  occasions. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  her,  Miss  Peck.  I  confess  that  some- 
times I  do  not  know  what  to  make  of  her.  But,  you  see, 
she  is  the  only  one  who  can  be  of  any  use  to  me.  She  knows 
all  about  working  girls  and  their  ways.  If  only  I  could  find 
poor  Lizzie  Hepburn.  She  always  knew  exactly  what  she 
meant,  and  she  was  clever  enough  for  anything,"  said  Gladys, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  But  tell  me,  my  dear,  what  is  it  you  wish  to  do  ?  I 
do  n't  know  that  I  quite  comprehend." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  quite  clear  about  it  yet  myself ;  though, 
of  course,  I  have  an  idea  I  want  to  help  them,  especially  the 
friendless  ones.  If  it  could  be  arranged,  I  should  like  to 
establish  a  kind  of  friendly  club  for  them  in  Glasgow,  where 
they  could  all  meet,  and  where  those  who  have  no  friends 
could  lodge ;  then  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  holiday  house 
for  them  here,  if  possible." 

"My  dear,  that  is  a  great  undertaking  for  one  so 
young." 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  must  try  it,  and  you  must  help 
me,  dear  Miss  Peck ;  for  Mrs.  Fordyce  won't.  She  does  n't 
approve  at  all  of  my  having  invited  Christina  Balfour  down 
here." 

"  My  dear,  the  world  never  does  approve  of  anything 
done  out  of  the  conventional  way,"  said  Miss  Peck,  with  a 


190  rjff^  GUINEA  STAMP. 


quiet  touch  of  bitterness.  "  I  think  you  have  a  very  noble 
aim,  and  the  heart  of  an  angel;  only  there  will  be  mount- 
ains of  difficulty  in  the  way." 

"  We  must  overcome  them,"  answered  Gladys,  quickly. 

"And  you  will  meet  with  much  discouragement,  and  a 
great  deal  of  ingratitude,"  pursued  the  little  spinster,  hating 
herself  for  her  discouraging  words,  but  convinced  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  prepare  her  dear  charge  for  the  worst. 

"Not  more  than  I  can  bear,"  Gladys  answered;  uand 
I  am  quite  sure  that,  with  all  these  drawbacks,  I  shall  also 
receive  many  bright,  encouraging  things  to  help  me  on." 

"  Yes,  ray  dear,  you  will.  God  will  reward  you  in  his 
own  best  way,"  said  Miss  Peck,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Gladys  sat  late  by  the  fire  that  night,  pondering  her  new 
scheme,  and  developing  its  details  with  great  rapidity.  She 
found  the  greatest  comfort  and  pleasure  in  such  planning  ; 
for  though  she  was  the  envied  of  many,  there  were  times, 
though  unconfessed,  when  she  was  weighed  down  by  her 
own  loneliness,  when  a  sense  of  desolation,  as  keen  as  any 
she  had  ever  experienced  in  Colquhoun  Street,  made  all  the 
lovelier  things  of  life  seem  of  no  account.  Next  morning 
Gladys  drove  her  guest  into  Troon,  and  at  sight  of  the  great 
sea,  its  breast  kindled  with  wintry  storms,  tossing  and 
rolling  in  wildest  unrest,  Teen  appeared  for  the  first  time 
really  moved. 

"It's  fearsome,"  she  said,  in  an  awe-stricken  whisper. 
"  Fearsome  1  Michty  me,  look  at  the  waves  !  It  's  fearsome 
to  look  at." 

"How  odd  that  it  should  strike  you  so  !"  exclaimed  Gladys. 
"It  always  rests  and  soothes  me.  The  wilder  it  is,  the 
deeper  the  quiet  it  infuses  into  my  soul.  See  the  tall  shadow 
3Tonder  through  the  mists  —  the  mountains  of  Arran  ;  and 
that  is  Ayr  across  Prestwick  Bay,  and  these  rocks  jutting 
out  into  the  sea  the  Heads  of  Ayr.  Do  you  see  that  house 
with  the  flag-staff  at  the  top  of  the  Links?  It  is  Mr.  For- 
dyce's  house  —  The  Anchorage,  where  I  lived  all  summer. 


THE  UNEXPECTED.  191 

It  is  splendid  here  to-day.     Stand  still,  Firefly,  you  impa- 
tient animal ;  we  are  not  ready  to  go  yet." 

"  I  wad  be  feared  to  live  in  that  hoose,"  said  Teen. 
"  The  waves  micht  come  up  in  the  nicht  an'  wash  it  away. 
Jist  look  at  that  yin  the  noo." 

A  great  green  wave,  with  its  angry  crest  of  foam,  came 
rolling  in  with  apparently  resistless  force,  and  spent  itself  on 
the  pebbly  shore  with  a  sullen  roar. 

"  Thus  far  shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther,"  said  Gladys, 
with  a  faint  smile  and  a  momentary  uplifting  of  her  eyes  to 
the  gray,  wintry  sky.  "  He  holdeth  the  sea  in  the  hollow  of 
His  hand." 

"Some  day  when  it  is  very  fine  I  shall  take  you  to  Ayr," 
said  Gladys,  as  she  turned  the  pony's  head.  "  I  have  often 
thought  how  I  should  like  to  bring  Liz  here.  I  can  not  tell 
you  how  I  feel  about  her;  I  think  about  her  almost  con- 
tinually. 

"So  dae  I,  though.  I  think,  mind,  she's  been  very 
shabby  to  me;  but  she  was  my  chum,"  said  Teen,  with  an 
unusually  soft  look  on  her  face.  "  She  didna  care  a  button 
what  she  said  to  a  body,  but  at  the  same  time  she  wad  dae 
onything  for  ye." 

"  And  you  still  think  she  is  in  London  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Teen,  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"Learnin'  to  be  an  actress,  as  sure  as  I  sit  here." 

"  Somehow,  I  do  n't  think  it.  I  have  an  odd  feeling  at 
times  about  her,  as  if  she  were  not  so  far  away  from  us  as 
we  imagine." 

"  She  's  no  in  Glesca,  ony way.  She  couldna  be  in  Glesca 
withoot  me  kennin',"  replied  Teen,  confidently.  "  There  's 
some  that  think  she  gaed  aff  wi'  a  beau  ;  but  they  never  said 
it  twice  to  me.  I  kent  Liz  better  than  that.  She  could 
watch  hersel'." 

"Did  you  know  him,  the  man  you  call  her  beau?"  in- 
quired Gladys,  with  a  slight  blush. 

"Ay,  I  kent  him,"  said  Teen,  looking  away  over  the 


192  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

landscape  as  if  she  suddenly  found  it  of  new  and  absorbing 
interest. 

"And  have  you  seen  him  since?" 

"Ay." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  him,  or  ask  him  if  he  knew  anything 
about  her?" 

"No  me;  it's  nane  o'  my  business  to  meddle;  but  maybe 
I  wad  ask  him  if  I  had  a  chance,"  said  Teen,  with  a  peculiar 
pressure  of  the  lips. 

"Who  is  he,  Teen?     Do  you  know  his  name?" 

"Ay,  fine  that;  but  it  wad  dae  nae  guid  to  say,"  replied 
Teen,  guardedly.  "  I  dinna  think  he  had  onything  to  dae 
wi'  her  gaun  away  onyway." 

Gladys  perceived  that  Teen  was  determined  to  be  utterly 
loyal  to  her  friend,  and  admired  her  for  it.  That  very  after- 
noon, however,  Teen  saw  occasion  to  change  her  mind  on 
the  subject.  After  lunch,  while  Gladys  was  busy  with  letter- 
writing,  Teen  went  out  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Macintyre  at 
the  lodge.  She  was  walking  very  leisurely  down  the  ave- 
nue, admiring  the  brilliant,  glossy  green  of  the  laurels  and 
hollies  when  the  tall  figure  of  a  man  in  a  long  ulster  came 
swinging  round  the  curve  which  hid  the  gates  from  view. 
Teen  gave  a  great  start,  and  the  dusky  color  leaped  in  her 
face  when  she  recognized  him.  His  cheek  flushed,  too,  wjth 
distinct  annoyance,  and  surprise  was  also  visible  on  his  face. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked,  without  the 
shadow  of  other  greeting.  Teen  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
kind  of  quiet  insolence  in  her  heavy  dark  eyes. 

"  That 's  my  business,"  she  said,  calmly;  and  picked  to 
pieces  the  leaf  she  had  in  her  hand. 

"Are  you  staying  here?"  he  asked,  then,  with  undis- 
guised uneasiness,  which  secretly  delighted  Teen.  If  there 
was  a  human  being  she  mortally  disliked  and  distrusted,  it 
was  Mr.  George  Fordyce. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  stayin'  at  the  big  hooso," 

"  With  Miss-Graham  ?" 


THE  UNEXPECTED,  193 

Teen  nodded ;  and  a  faint,  melancholy  smile,  half  of 
scorn,  half  of  amusement,  touched  her  thin  lips. 

"  How  did  you  manage  that?"  he  inquired,  angrily.  "I 
can  't  understand  it." 

"Nor  I;  ye  can  ask  her  if  ye  like,"  responded  Teen, 
calmly;  then  quite  suddenly  she  dropped  her  mask  of  indif- 
ference, and  laying  her  thin,  worn  fingers  on  his  arm,  lifted 
her  penetrating  eyes  swiftly  to  his  uneasy  face. 

"I  say,  where  's  Liz?" 

"How  should  I  know?  How  dare  you  question  me?" 
he  asked,  passionately.  "  I  shall  warn  Miss  Graham  against 
you,  that  you  are  not  a  proper  person  to  have  in  her  house. 
You  are  not  fit  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  her." 

"  May  be  no ;  but  as  fit  as  you,"  she  answered,  scorn- 
fully. "  I  see  through  it  a' ;  but  if  ye  have  harmed  Liz,  my 
gentleman,  ye  '11  no  get  off  wi'  it.  Yo  '11  answer  for  it 
to  me." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  had  called  her  vulgar  and  commonplace. 
She  did  not  look  so  now.  Passion  transformed  her  into  a 
noble  creature.  The  man  of  the  world,  accustomed  to  its 
homage  and  adulation,  cowed  before  the  little  seamstress  of 
the  slums.  While  she  walked  away  from  him,  as  if  scorning 
to  bandy  further  words,  he  looked  after  her  in  consternation. 
She  had  not  only  surprised,  she  had  made  a  coward  of  him 
for  the  moment.  He  seemed  to  see  in  the  slight,  insignifi- 
cant form  of  the  city  girl  the  Nemesis  who  would  sooner  or 
later  bring  his  evil  deeds  home,  and  thwart  what  was  at  the 
present  moment  the  highest  ambition  of  his  life. 

His  step  lagged  as  he  continued  his  way  towards  the 
house,  within  whose  walls  dwelt  the  woman  whom  love  and 
ambition  prompted  him  to  make  his  wife.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, the  reluctance  of  a  dishonored  soul  to  seek  communion 
with  one  so  absolutely  pure,  it  was  merely  the  hesitation  of  a 
prudence  wholly  selfish.  He  rapidly  reviewed  the  situation, 
considered  every  possibility  and  every  likely  issue,  and  took 
his  resolve.  He  could  not  afford  to  wait.  'If  Gladys  was 

13 


194  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

ever  to  be  his,  she  must  be  won  at  once.  If  she  cared  suffi- 
ciently for  him  to  pledge  herself  to  him,  he  believed  that  she 
would  stand  by  him  and  take  his  word,  whatever  slander 
might  assail  his  name.  He  had  not  anticipated  this  crisis 
when,  in  a  careless,  idle  mood,  he  had  left  the  mill,  and  fol- 
lowed the  impulse  which  sent  him  to  Bourhill. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  steps  before  the  door  every 
trace  of  disturbance  had  vanished,  and  he  was  once  more  the 
urbane,  handsome,  debonnair  gentleman,  who  played  such 
havoc  among  women's  hearts. 

Miss  Graham  being  at  home,  he  was  at  once  shown  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  left  there  while  the  maid  took  his 
name  to  her  mistress.  Meanwhile  Teen,  instead  of  going 
into  the  lodge,  passed  through  the  gates  and  walked  away 
up  the  road.  She  was  utterly  alone,  the  only  sign  of  life 
being  a  flock  of  sheep  in  the  distance,  trotting  on  sedately 
before  a  tall  shepherd  and  a  collie  dog.  Teen  never  saAv 
them.  She  was  fearfully  excited,  believing  that  she  had  at 
last  discovered  the  clue  to  her  missing  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

KIRST  WOOER. 

LA.DYS  was  writing  a  long  letter  to  her  guardian, 
.setting  forth  in  eloquent  terms  what  she  wished 
to  do  for  the  working  girls  of  the  East  End.  and 
asking  him  for  some  sympathy  and  advice,  when 
the  housemaid  knocked  at  the  door. 

••A  gentleman  for  me.  Ellen?  Yes,  I  shall  be  there  pres- 
ently." she  said,  without  looking  at  the  card  on  the  salver. 
'•  Is  Miss  Peck  in  the  drawing-room?' 

••  Xo,  ma'am,  she  is  taking  her  rest.     Shall  I  tell  her?'' 
••  O  no — who  is  it  ?" 

She  added  another  word  to  her  letter,  and  then  read  the 
name  on  the  card.  The  maid,  standing  by.  could  not  help 
seeing  the  lovely  access  of  color  in  the  fair  cheek  of  her 
mistress,  and,  as  was  natural,  drew  her  own  conclusions. 

(iladys^rose  at  once  and  proceeded  up-stairs.  She  did 
not.  as  almost  every  other  woman  in  the  circumstances  would 
have  done,  go  to  her  own  room  to  inspect  her  appearance  or 
make  any  change  in  her  toilet.  And,  in  truth,  none  was 
needed.  Her  plain,  black  serge  gown,  with  its  little  ruffle  at 
the  neck,  which  would  have  made  a  dowdy  of  almost  any- 
body but  herself,  was  at  once  a  fitting  and  becoming  robe. 

195 


196  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Her  lovely  hair,  which  in  the  early  days  had  hung  in  strait, 
heavy  plaits  over  her  back,  was  now  wound  about  her  head, 
and  kept  in  place  by  a  band  and  knot  of  black  velvet.  She 
moved  with  the  calm  mien  and  serious  grace  of  a  woman  at 
ease  with  herself  and  all  the  world. 

A  faint  hesitation,  however,  visited  her  when  she  stood 
without  the  closed  door  of  the  drawing-room.  That  curious 
prevision,  which  mostof  us  experience  at  times,  that  something 
unusual  was  in  store,  robbed  her  for  a  moment  of  her  usual 
self-possession.  But,  smiling  and  inwardly  chiding  herself 
for  her  own  folly,  she  opened  the  door,  and  entered  the  pres- 
ence of  her  lover.  She  knew  him  to  be  such  ;  it  was  impos- 
sible to  mistake  his  demeanor  and  his  attitude  toward  her. 
There  was  the  most  love-like  eagerness  in  his  look  and  step 
as  he  came  toward  her;  and  under  his  gaze  the  girl's  sweet 
eyes  drooped,  and  her  color  deepened. 

"  This  is  quite  a  surprise,"  she  said,  gayly.  "  Why  did 
you  not  bring  some  of  the  girls  with  you?" 

"  I  have  n't  seen  them  for  ages,  and  Julia  has  a  dance  on* 
to-night  for  which  she  is  saving  Herself.     Besides,  perhaps,  I 
wanted  to  come  quite  alone." 

"  Yes  ?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  faintly  interrogatory ;  "  and 
you  had  to  walk  from  the  station,  too.  If  you  had  only  wired 
in  the  morning,  I  could  have  come  or  sent  for  you." 

"  But  you  see  I  did  not  know  in  the  morning  I  should  be 
here  to-day.  It  is  often  the  unexpected  that  happens.  I 
came  off  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  Are  you  glad  to 
see  me?" 

It  was  a  very  direct  question ;  but  Gladys  had  now  quite 
recovered  herself,  and  met  it  with  a  calm  smile. 

"  Why,  of  course ;  how  could  I  be  otherwise  ?  But,  I  say, 
you  said  a  moment  ago  you  had  not  seen  any  of  the  girls  for 
ages ;  it  is  only  forty-eight  hours  since  we  met  in  your  aunt's 
drawing-room." 

"So  it  is,"  he  said,  innocently.  "I  had  quite  forgotten, 
which  shows  how  time  goes  with  me  when  you  are  out  of 


THE  FIRST  WOOER.  197 

town.  Are  you  really  going  to  bury  yourself  here  all 
winter?" 

"  I  am  going  to  live  here,  of  course.  It  is  my  home,  and  I 
do  n't  want  any  other.  A  day  in  Glasgow  once  a  week  is 
quite  enough  for  me." 

"  Hard  lines  for  Glasgow,"  he  said,  tugging  his  mustache, 
and  looking  at  her  with  a  good  deal  of  real  sentiment  in  his 
handsome  eyes.  She  was  looking  so  sweet  he  felt  himself 
more  in  love  than  ever;  and  there  was  a  certain  "stand- 
offishness"  in  her  manner,  which  attracted  him  as  much  as 
anything.  He  had  not  hitherto  found  such  indifference  a 
quality  among  the  young  ladies  of  his  acquaintance. 

"I  have  just  heen  writing  to  your  Uncle  Tom,  telling 
him  I  want  to  spend  a  great  deal  of  money,"  she  began, 
i-ather  to  divert  the  conversation  than  from  any  pi-essing  de- 
sire for  his  opinion.  "And  I  do  n't  feel  at  all  sure  about 
what  he  will  say.  Your  aunt  does  not  approve,  I  know." 

"May  I  ask  how  you  are  going  to  spend  it?"  he  inquired 
'with  interest. 

"Oyes;  I  want  to  institute  a  club  for  working-girls  in 
Glasgow,  and  a  holiday-house  for  them  here." 

"  But  there  are  any  amount  of  such  things  in  Glasgow 
already,  and  I  question  if  they  do  any  good.  I  know  my 
mother  and  Ju  are  always  down  on  them ;  and  there 's 
truth  in  what  they  say,  too,  that  we  are  making  a  god  out  of 
the  woi'king-class.  It  is  quite  sickening  what  is  done  for 
them,  and  how  ungrateful  they  are." 

Gladys  winced  a  little,  and  he  perceived  that  he  had 
spoken  rather  strongly. 

"  I  know  there  is  a  good  deal  done ;  but  I  think  some- 
times the  methods  are  not  quite  wise,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  I 
am  going  to  run  my  club,  as  the  Americans  say,  '  on  my  own 
lines.'  You  see  I  am  rather  different,  for  I  have  been  a  poor 
working-girl  myself,  and  I  know  both  what  they  need  and 
what  will  do  them  most  good." 

"  You  seem  rather  proud  of  the  distinction,"  he  said,  in- 


198  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

voluntarily.  "  Most  women  in  your  position  would  have 
made  a  point  of  ignoring  the  past.  That  is  what  half  of 
Glasgow  is  trying  to  do  all  the  time — forget  where  they 
sprung  from.  Why  are  you  so  different?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

Her  lips  curled  in  a  fine  scorn.  "As  if  it  mattered,"  she 
said,  half  contemptuously.  "As  if  it  mattered  what  anybody 
had  sprung  from !  I  was  reading  Burns  this  morning,  and  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  worship  him,  if  for  nothing  more  than  writ- 
ing these  lines : 

'  The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 
A  man 's  a  man  for  a'  that.' " 

"  That 's  all  very  good  in  theory,"  he  said,  a  trifle  lazily ; 
"  and,  besides,  it  is  very  easy  for  you  to  speak  like  that  with 
centuries  of  lineage  behind  you.  I  suppose  the  Grahams  are 
as  old  as  the  Eglintons,  or  the  Alexanders,  or  even  the  great 
Portland  family  itself,  if  you  come  to  inquire  into  it.  Yes, 
it  is  very  easy  for  you  to  despise  rank." 

"  I  do  n't  despise  it,  and  I  am  very  proud  in  my  own 
way  that  I  do  belong  to  such  an  old  family;  but,  all  the 
same,  it  does  n't  really  matter.  There  is  nothing  of  any  real 
value  except  honor  and  high  character,  and,  of  course, 
genius." 

"  When  you  speak  like  that,  Gladys,  and  look  like  that, 
upon  my  word  you  make  a  fellow  afraid  to  open  his  mouth 
before  you,"  he  said,  quickly ;  and  thei'e  was  something  very 
winning  in  the  humility  and  deference  with  which  he  uttered 
these  words.  Gladys  was  not  unmoved  by  them,  and  had  he 
followed  up  his  slight  advantage,  he  might  have  won  her  on 
the  spot.  But  at  the  propitious  moment  Ellen  brought  in  the 
tea-tray,  and  the  conversation  had  to  drift  into  a  more  gen- 
eral groove. 

"  To  return  to  my  project,"  said  Gladys,  when  the  maid 
had  gone  again,  "  I  have  one  of  my  old  acquaintances  among 
the  working  girls  here  just  now.  I  expect  she  will  help  me 


THE  FIRST  WOOER.  190 

a  good  deal.  She  was  the  friend  of  poor  Lizzie  Hepburn, 
whom  \ve  have  lost  so  completely.  Is  it  not  strange?  What 
do  you  think  can  have  become  of  her?" 

"I'm  sure  I  could  n't  say,"  he  replied,  with  all  the  indif- 
ference at  his  command.  Gladys,  busy  with  the  tea-cups, 
noticed  nothing  strange  in  his  manner;  nor  did  his  answer 
disappoint  her  much.  She  was  quite  aware  that  he  did  not 
take  an  absorbing  interest  in  the  questions  which  engrossed 
so  much  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  The  saddest  thing  about  it  is,  that  nobody  seems  to  care 
an}T thing  about  what  has  become  of  her,"  she  said,  as  she 
took  the  dainty  Wedge  wood  tea-pot  in  her  hand.  "Just 
think  if  the  same  thing  had  happened  to  your  sister  or 
either  of  your  cousins,  what  a  thing  it  would  have  been !" 

"  My  dear  Gladys,  the  cases  are  not  parallel.  Such 
things  happen  every  day,  and  nobody  pays  the  least  atten- 
tion. And.  besides,  such  people  do  not  have  the  same  feel- 
ings as  we  do." 

Gladys  looked  at  him  indignantly. 

"  You  only  say  so  because  you  know  nothing  about 
them,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  I  do  assure  you  the  poor  have 
quite  as  keen  feelings  as  the  rich,  and  some  things  they  feel 
even  more,  I  think.  Why,  only  to-day  I  had  an  instance  of 
it  in  the  girl  I  have  staying  here.  Her  loyalty  to  Liz  is 
quite  beautiful.  I  wish  you  would  not  judge  so  harshly  and 
hastily." 

"I  will  think  anything  to  please  you,  Gladys,"  said 
George,  fervently.  "  You  must  forgive  me  if  I  am  a  trifle 
skeptical.  You  see,  a  fellow  has  his  opinions  molded  pretty 
much  by  his  people,  and  mine  do  n't  take  your  view  of  the 
lower  classes." 

Again  he  was  unfortunate  in  his  choice  of  words.  Gladys 
particularly  disliked  the  expression  "  lower  classes,"  and  his 
apologetic  tone  did  not  appease  her. 

"They  judge  them  harshly  because  they  know  nothing 
about  them,  and  never  will.  One  has  to  live  among  them, 


200  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

as  I  have  done,  to  learn  their  good  qualities.     It  is  the  only 
way,"  she  said,  rather  sadly. 

George  set  down  his  cup  on  the  tray  and  lingered  at  the 
table,  looking  down  at  her  with  a  glance  which  might  have 
disconcerted  her. 

"  You  are  so  awfully  good,  Gladys,"  he  said,  quite  humbly 
for  him.  "  I  wonder  you  can  be  half  as  civil  as  you  are  to  a 
reprobate  like  me." 

"Are  you  a  reprobate?"  she  asked,  with  a  faint,  wonder- 
ing smile. 

"  I  'm  not  as  good  as  I  should  be,"  he  added,  frankly.  "  But 
you  see  I've  never  had  anybody  put  things  in  the  light  you 
put  them  in.  If  I  had,  I  believe  it  would  have  made  all  the 
difference.  Won't  you  take  me  in  hand?" 

He  threw  as  much  significance  as  he  dared  into  his  last 
question,  but  Gladys  apparently  did  not  catch  his  meaning. 

"  I  do  n't  like  to  hear  you  speak  so,"  was  the  unexpected 
reply.  "It  is  like  throwing  the  blame  on  other  people.  A 
man  ought  to  be  strong  enough  to  be  and  to  do  good  on  his 
own  account." 

"  If  you  tell  me  what  you  would  like  me  to  do,  I  '11  do  it — 
upon  my  word,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

"0,  I  have  no  right  to  do  that;  but  since  you  ask,  I  will 
say  that  you  have  not  very  far  to  seek  your  opportunities. 
Your  Uncle  Tom  told  me  the  other  day  you  employed  nearly 
seven  hundred  men  and  women  at  your  mills.  If  that  is  not 
a  field  for  you  to  work  in,  I  do  n't  know  what  is." 

George  Fordyce  bit  his  lip  ever  so  slightly,  and  half 
turned  away.  This  was  bringing  it  home,  indeed,  and  the 
vision  of  himself  taking  up  a  new  role  among  his  own  work- 
people rather  disconcerted  him. 

"Now  you  are  offended,"  said  Gladys,  quickly.  "And, 
please,  it  is  not  my  fault.  You  asked  me  what  you 
should  do." 

"Offended!  with  you?  No  such  thing.  You  could  never 
offend  me.  Can't  you  see,  Gladys,  that  the  very  reason  I 


THE  FIRST  WOOER.  201 

would  be  better  is  you,  and  you  alone.  I  want  to  please  you 
because  I  want  to  win  you." 

There  was  no  doubt  at  all  about  his  meaning  now.  The 
passion  with  which  he  spoke  brought  a  blush  to  the  girl's 
cheek,  and  she  rose  hurriedly  from  her  chair. 

"  0,  you  must  not  say  such  things  to  me,  please." 

"Why  not?  Every  man  has  the  right  to  speak  when  he 
loves  a  woman  as  I  love  you.  Could  not  you  care  for  me, 
Gladys  ?  I  know  I  am  not  half  good,  but  I  '11  try  to  be  bet- 
ter for  your  sake." 

"  I  have  liked  you  very  well.  I  do  like  you,"  she 
answered,  with  a  trembling  frankness.  "  Only,  I  think,  not 
quite  in  that,  way." 

"If  you  like  me  at  all,  I  shall  not  despair.  It  will  come 
in  time.  Give  me  the  hope  that  you  '11  try  to  think  of  me 
in  that  way,"  he  pleaded,  passionately,  and  Gladys  slightly 
shook  her  head. 

"Try?"  she  repeated.  "I  do  not  know  much;  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  that  should  be  without  tiying." 

"But  you  need  not  give  me  a  final  answer  now.  Let  me 
wait  and  try  to  win  you — to  be  more  worthy  of  you.  I 
know  I  am  not  that  yet ;  but  you  know  we  've  got  on  aw- 
fully well  together — been  such  chums — I  'm  sure  it  would  all 
come  right." 

He  looked  very  handsome  and  very  winning,  pleading 
his  cause  with  an  earnestness  which  left  no  doubt  of  his  sin- 
cerity. Gladys  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand,  and  did  not 
draw  herself  away. 

"  If  you  will  let  me  alone  a  long  time — a  year  at  least — 
and  never  speak  of  it,  I  will  give  you  an  answer  then,"  she 
said,  slowly.  "It  is  a  very  serious  thing,  and  one  must  be 
quite  sure,"  she  said,  slowly ;  and  that  answer  was  more  than 
George  Fordyce  had  dared  to  hope  for.  There  was  more  de- 
liberation and  calmness  in  her  disposal  of  the  question  than 
would  have  satisfied  most  men ;  but  he  had  fared  better  than 
he  expected,  and  left  the  house  content. 


202 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 


As  for  Gladys,  she  felt  restless  and  unhappy — she  did  not 
know  why.  Only  she  knew  that  never  had  her  thoughts 
reverted  with  such  lingering  persistence  to  the  past ;  never 
had  its  memories  seemed  more  fraught  with  sweetness  and 
with  pain.  She  was  an  enigma — she  could  not  understand 
herself. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

UNDER    DISCUSSION. 

took  quite  a  long  walk  along  the  bleak 
country  road,  and  on  her  way  back  dropped  in  at 
the  lodge. 

Mrs.  Macintyreand  the  redoubtable  "  Tammy, ' 
a  very  round    and    chubby    urchin,  as  unlike  a 
denizen  of   the  slums  as  could   well  be  imagined,'  were  sit- 
ting at  tea  by  the  cozy  hearth,  and  there  was  a  warm  wel- 
come and  a  cup  for  the  visitor  at  once. 

"  Come  awa',  my  wummin,  I  saw  ye  gang  by,''  said  the 
good  soul,  cheerily.  ';  My  !  but  ye  hae  a  fine  color ;  jist  gang 
ben  an'  look  at  yersel'  in  the  room  glass.  Ye  're  no  like  the 
same  lassie.'' 

Teen  smiled  rather  incredulously,  and  did  not  go  "  ben  ;) 
to  verify  the  compliment. 

"  It 's  a  fine  place  this,1'  she  said,  as  she  dropped  into  a 
chair.  "A  body's  never  tired.  L  wonder  onybody  bides  in 
the  toon  when  there  s  sae  much  room  in  the  country.  ' 

The  wideness  of  the  landscape,  its  solitary  freedom,  and  its 
quiet,  impressed  the  city  girl  in  no  ordinary  way.  After  the 
crush  and  struggle  of  the  overcrowded  streets,  which  she  had 
not  until  now  left  behind,  it  was  natural  she  should  be  so 
impressed. 

203 


204  THE  G  UINEA  STAMP. 

"  I  \valkit  as  far  as  frae  Trongate  to  the  Briggate,  an'  I  saw 
naething  but  twa  three  sheep,  an'  a  robin  red-breist  sittin' 
in  the  hedge,"  she  said,  musingly.  "  Its  breist  was  as  red  as 
it  had  been  pented.  I  didna  ken  yc  could  see  them  livin'?" 

"  O,  there's  thousan's  o'  them,"  quoth  Tammy,  enthu- 
siastically. "  In  the  spring  that  hedge  up  the  road  will  be 
thick  wi'  nests,  filled  wi'  eggs  o'  a'  kinds." 

"Which  ye '11  leave  alane,  my  man,  or  I'll  warm  ye," 
said  his  aunt,  with  a  warning  glance.  "Ay,  my  wummin, 
this  is  a  hantle  better  nor  the  Trongate  or  the  Briggate  o' 
Glesca'.  An'  what's  the  young  leddy  aboot  this  afternune." 

"  Writin'  letters,  I  think.  Has  she  said  onything  to  you, 
Mrs.  Macintyre  aboot  makin'  a  club  for  lassies  in  the  toon." 

"Tammy,"  said  Mrs.  Macintyre,  "tak'  the  wee  jug  an' 
rin  up  to  the  dairy,  an'  ask  Mrs.  Grieve  if  she  '11  gie  ye  a 
hapny  worth  o'  mair  cream." 

She  did  not  urgently  require  the  cream ;  but  it  was  neces- 
sary at  the  moment  to  get  rid  of  Tammy,  who  was  a  re- 
markably shrewd  boy,  with  very  long  ears,  and  a  wonderful 
understanding. 

Just  as  Tammy  departed,  rather  unwillingly  it  must  be 
told,  the  carriage  from  the  house  came  bowling  down  the 
avenue,  and  Mrs.  Macintyre  ran  out  to  open  the  gate.  From 
her  seat  by  the  fire  Teen  could  see  over  the  low  white  win- 
dow-blind that  George  Fordyce  sat  in  it  alone. 

"There's  something  up,"  said  Mrs.  Macintyre.  "D'ye 
see  that?" 

She  held  up  a  shining  half-crown,  which  in  his  gracious 
mood  the  hopeful  lover  had  bestowed  upon  the  gate-keeper. 
"  I  wonder  if  that's  to  be  the  Laird  of  Bourhill?"  she 
said,  meditatively.  "Ye  wadna  see  him  as  he  gaed  by,  a 
very  braw  man,  an'  rich,  they  say — a  Fordyce  o'  Gorbals 
Mill.  Hae  ye  heard  o'  them?" 

"Ay,  often."  Teen's  color  seemed  to  have  deepened,  but 
it  might  be  only  the  fire  which  glowed  upon  it.  "  Ye  dinna 
mean  to  say  that  that  micht  happen  ?" 


UNDER  DISCUSSION.  205 

"What  for  no?"  queried  Mrs.  Macintyre,  easily,  as  she 
cut  a  slice  from  the  loaf,  and  held  it  on  a  fork  before  the  fire. 
'•  She  's  borinie  an'  she  's  guid,  besides  being  weel  tochered. 
She  '11  no  want  for  wooers.  I  say,  did  ye  ken  Walter  Hep- 
burn, that  carries  on  auld  Skinny's  business  noo  in  Col- 
quhoun  Street?" 

"Yes,  well  enough,"  answered  Teen,  slowly. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  wad  hae  said  the  twa,  him  an' 
Miss  Gladys  I  mean,  were  made  for  ane  anither,  but  it 's  no 
noo.  He  seems  to  hae  forgotten  her,  and  maybe  it 's  as  weel. 
She  maun  mak'  a  braw  marriage,  an'  Fordyce  is  a  braw  fel- 
low. I  wish  ye  had  a'  noticed  him." 

"  0,  I  Ve  seen  him  afore,"  said  Teen,  witb  an  evident 
effort,  and  somehow  the  conversation  did  not  flow  very 
freely,  but  was  purely  a  one-sided  affair,  Teen  simply  sitting 
glowering  into  the  fire  with  an  expression  on  her  face  which 
indicated  that  she  was  only  partially  interested  in  the  gate- 
keeper's cheery  talk.  It  was  rather  a  relief  when  Tammy 
returned  with  the  "  wee  jug  "  full  of  cream. 

Mrs.  Macintyre  was,  on  the  whole,  disappointed  with  her 
guest,  and  saw  her  depart  after  tea  without  regret.  She  was 
altogether  too  reticent  and  silent  for  that  garrulous  person's 
liking.  She  would  have  been  very  much  astonished  had  she 
obtained  a  glimpse  into  the  girl's  mind.  Never,  indeed, 
in  all  her  life  had  Teen  Balfour  been  so  troubled  and  so 
anxious. 

Once  or  twice  that  evening  Gladys  caught  her  looking  at  her 
with  glance  so  penetrating  and  so  anxious  that  it  impressed 
her  with  a  sort  of  uneasiness.  She  did  not  feel  particularly 
happy  herself.  Now  that  her  lover  had  gone,  and  that  the 
subtle  charm  of  his  personality  and  presence  was  only  a 
memory,  she  half  regretted  what  had  happened  that  after- 
noon. She  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  committed  herself,  and 
she  was  surprised  that  she  should  secretly  chafe  over  it. 

"  Teen,"  she  said,  quite  suddenly,  when  they  were  sitting 
alone  at  the  library  fire  after  supper,  when  Miss  Peck  had 


206  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

gone  to  give  her  housekeeping  orders  for  the  morning,  "  had 
you  ever  a  lover?" 

This  extraordinary  and  unexpected  question  drove  the 
blood  into  the  colorless  face  of  Teen,  and  she  could  not  for 
the  moment  answer. 

"  Well,  yes,"  she  said,  at  length,  with  a  faint,  queer  smile. 
"  Maybe  I  've  had  t\va,  three  o'  a'  kind." 

"  Two  or  three,"  echoed  Gladys,  in  a  surprised  and  rather 
disapproving  voice.  "  That  is  very  odd.  But,  tell  me,  have 
you  ever  seen  anybody  who  wished  to  marry  you,  and  whom 
you  wished  to  marry?" 

"  There  was  a  lad  asked  me  yince,"  answered  Teen.  "  But 
he  was  only  seventeen — a  'prentice  in  Tennant's,  wi'  aicht 
shillin's  a  week.  I  've  never  had  a  richt  offer." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  you  have  had  two 
or  three  lovers?"  queried  Gladys,  in  wonder. 

"  O,  weel,  I  've  keepit  company  wi'  a  lot.  They  've  walkit 
meoot, an'  ta'en  me  to  parties  an'  that,  that's  Avhat  I  mean." 

Gladys  was  rather  disappointed,  perceiving  that  it  was 
not  likely  she  would  get  much  help  from  the  experience  of 
Teen. 

"I  think  that  is  rather  strange;  but  perhaps  it  is  quite 
right,  and  it  is  only  I  who  am  strange.  But,  tell  me,  do  you 
think  a  girl  always  can  know  just  at  once  whether  she  cares 
enough  for  a  man  to  marry  him?" 

"  I  dinna  ken  ;  there  's  different  kinds  o'  marriages,"  said 
Te.en,  philosophically.  "  I  dinna  think  there  's  onything  in 
real  life  like  the  love  in  'Lord  Bellew's  Bride,'  unless  among 
the  gentry." 

"Do  you  really  think  not?"  asked  Gladys,  with  a  slight 
wist ful ness.  "  I  have  not  read  Lord  Bellow,  of  course,  but  I 
do  believe  there  is  that  kind  of  love  which  would  give  up 
all,  and  dare  and  suffer  anything.  1  should  not  like  to 
marry  without  it." 

"Dinna  then,"  replied  Teen,  quite  coolly.  Nevertheless, 
as  she  looked  at  the  sweet  face  rendered  so  grave  and  earnest 


UNDER  DISCUSSION.  207 

by  the  intensity  of  her  thought,  her  eye  became  more  and 
more  troubled. 

"Among  oor  kind  o'  folk  there  's  a'  kind  o'  marriages," 
she  began.  "Some  lassies  mairy.  thinkiiv  they'll  hae  an 
easier  time,  an'  a  man  to  work  for  them,  an'  they  sometimes 
fin'  oot  they've  only  taSn  somebody  to  keep;  some  mairy 
for  spite,  an' some  because  they'd  rather  dee  than  be  auld 
maids.  I  dinna  think  rr^sel',  love,  if  there  be  sic  a  thing, 
has  onything  to  do  wi't." 

It  was  rather  a  cynical  doctrine;  but  Teen  implicitly 
believed  what  she  was  saying. 

"Are  you  thinkin'  on  mairy  in"?'1  she  asked  then,  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  continued  in  rather  a  hur- 
ried, troubled  way:  <:  I  wadna  if  I  were  you,  at  least  for 
awhile.  Wait  or  ye  see  what  turns  up.  Ye  '11  never  be  bet- 
ter than  ye  are,  an'  men  are  jist  men.  I  wadna  gie  a  brass 
fardin'  for  the  best  o'  them.'' 

Gladys  did  not  resent  this  plain  expression  of  opinion, 
because  she  perceived  that  a  genuine  kindliness  prompted  it. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  not  marry  for  a  very  long  time," 
Gladys  replied;  then  they  fell  to  talking  over  the  other  sub- 
ject, which  was  so  interesting  to  thorn  both.  Underneath  all 
her  cynical  philosophy  there  was  real  kindness  as  Avell  as 
shrewd  common  sense  in  the  little  seamstress.  She  was  in 
some  respects  one  of  the  best  advisers  Gladys  could  possibh' 
have  taken  into  her  confidence. 

These  sweet,  restful  days  were  a  benediction  to  the  weary, 
half-starved  heart  of  the  city  girl;  and  under  their  benign 
influence  she  became  a  different  creature.  Little  Miss  Peck, 
who  adored  Gladys,  sometimes  observed,  with  a  smile  of  ap- 
proval, the  grateful,  pathetic  look  in  Teen's  large,  solemn 
eyes,  when  they  followed  the  sweet  young  creature  who  had 
shown  her  a  glimpse  of  the  sunny  side  of  life.  It  was  not  a 
glimpse,  however,  which  Gladys  intended  to  be  merely 
transient.  She  had  in  view  a  scheme  which  was  to  be  of 
permanent  value  to  the  poor  little  seamstress. 


208  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

In  the  course  of  that  week  Gladys  had  occasion  to  be 
over  night  in  Glasgow,  for  the  purpose  of  attending  a  con- 
cert with  the  family  in  Bellairs  Crescent.  It  was  a  very  se- 
lect and  fashionable  affair,  at  which  the  elite  and  beauty  of 
Glasgow  were  present.  Gladys  enjoyed  the  gay  and  ani- 
mated scene  as  much  as  the  music,  which  was  also  to  her  a  rare 
treat.  When  they  left  the  hall  it  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock, 
and  they  had  to  wait  some  time  in  the  vestibule  till  their 
carriage  should  move  upward  to  the  door.  It  was  a  fine, 
mild  night,  and  the  girls,  with  their  soft  hoods  drawn  over 
their  heads,  and  their  fleecy  wraps  close  about  their  throats, 
stood  near  the  great  doors,  chatting  merrily  while  they 
waited.  The  usual  small  crowd  of  loafers  were  hanging 
about  the  pavements,  and,  as  usual,  Gladys  was  saddened  by 
the  sight  of  the  dejected  and  oftentimes  degraded-looking 
denizens  of  the  lower  quarters  of  the  city.  It  might  be  that, 
in  contrast  with  the  gay  and  handsomely-dressed  people  from 
the  West  End,  their  poverty  seemed  even  more  pitiable. 

"  Now,  Gladys,  no  such  pained  expression,  if  you  please," 
said  the  observant  Mina.  "Do  n't  look  as  if  you  carried  all 
the  sins  and  sorrows  of  Glasgow  on  your  own  shoulders. 
Good,  here  is  the  brougham ;  and  pray  observe  the  expres- 
sion on  the  countenance  of  James.  Is  it  not  a  picture?" 

Gladys  could  not  but  laugh,  and  they  tripped  across  the 
pavement  to  the  carriage.  When  they  were  all  in,  and  Mr. 
Fordyce  had  given  the  word  to  the  coachman,  a  woman  sud- 
denly swerved  from  the  pavement  and  peered  in  at  the  car- 
riage window.  At  the  moment  the  impatient  horses  moved 
swiftly  away,  and  when  Gladys  begged  them  to  stop  it  was 
too  late.  The  woman  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 

Gladys,  however,  had  seen  her  face,  and  recognized  it,  in 
spite  of  the  change  upon  it,  as  the  face  of  Walter's  sister  Liz. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


HE  fleeting  vision  of  Liz  Hepburn's  familiar 
face  appeared  to  fill  Gladys  with  excitement 
and  unrest.  As  Mina  looked  at  her  flushed 
cheeks  and  shining  eyes  she  felt  a  vague  un- 
easiness visit  her  own  heart.  They  did  not  speak 
of  her  as  they  drove  home;  but  when  the  girls  gathered,  as 
was  their  wont,  round  the  cheerful  fire  in  the  guest-cham- 
ber before  retiring  for  the  night,  Gladys  asked  them  a 
question. 

"  Did  you  see  her?  She  looked  very  ill,  and  very  dis- 
tressed. Do  you  not  think  so?  O,  I  fear  she  has  been  in 
trouble,  and  I  must  do  all  I  can  to  find  out  about  her.  If 
you  will  allow  me  I  shall  remain  another  day  in  town,  and  I 
can  send  a  telegram  to  Miss  Peck  in  the  morning. 

Mina  on  her  knees  beside  her  chair,  her  plump  bare  arm 
showing  very  white  and  fair  against  the  black  lace  of  Gladys's 
gown,  looked  up  at  her  with  a  slightly  troubled  air. 

"  Gladys,  I  wish  you  would  n't  bother  about  that  girl. 
You  lay  things  far  too  much  to  heart.  It  can't  possibly  con- 
cern you  now.  Let  her  own  people  look  after  her." 

Gladys  received  this  remark  with  rather  an  indignant  look. 

H  209 


210  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Mina,  that  is  not  like  you.  You  only  assume  such 
hard-heartedness.  If  you  saw  her  face  as  I  saw  it,  it  must 
haunt  you.  Her  eyes  were  quite  wild  and  despairing;  I  can 
not  forget  them." 

"  0, 1  think  you  exaggerate !"  said  Miua,  lightly.  "  I  saw 
her  very  well.  It  was  the  usual  calm,  rather  insolent,  stare 
these  girls  give.  I  do  not  think  she  looked  either  very  ill  or 
very  desperate,  and  she  seemed  comfortably  clothed.  What 
do  you  think,  Clara?" 

"  O,  I  didn't  see  her!"  answered  Clara,  with  a  slight 
yawn.  "Yes,  Gladys,  dear,  I  do  think  you  worry  too  much 
over  things.  What  can  that  girl  possibly  be  to  you?  Ot 
course,  we  are  very  sorry  for  her;  still,  if  she  is  in  trouble 
she  has  brought  it  on  herself.  It  will  never  do  for  you  to 
mix  yourself  up  with  all  sorts  and  conditions.  I  say,  was  n't 
Sims  Reeves  heavenly  to-night,  and  '  Come  into  the  Garden, 
Maud,'  more  entrancing  than  ever?  To  think  what  immense 
power  that  man  wields  in  his  voice.  He  can  do  with  his 
audience  as  he  likes.  He  was  in  splendid  form." 

Gladys  remained  silent.  The  concert  had  given  her  a 
rare  pleasure,  but  it  was  obliterated  at  the  moment  by  the 
incident  of  the  face  at  the  carriage  window. 

"  We  had  better  get  to  bed,  girls,  or  mamma  will  be  send- 
ing Katherine  to  us  presently,"  said  Mina,  as  she  picked  her- 
self up  from  the  rug.  "  Good-night,  dear,  and  do  n't  worry. 
If  you  wrinkle  up  your  brows  like  that  over  every  trifle, 
you  will  be  old  before  your  time." 

Gladys  faintly  smiled,  and  bade  them  good-iiight.  She 
"  worried  "  a  good  deal  more  than  either  ef  them  imagined. 

"I  say,  Clara,  I  do  wish  we  could  induce  Gladys  to  leave 
that  girl  alone,"  Mina  said  to  her  sister,  as  she  threw  off  her 
evening  gown  and  began  to  brush  out  her  hair.  "  I  have 
the  oddest  feeling  about  it,  just  as  if  it  would  make  mischief; 
haven't  you?" 

"No;  but  you  needn't  try  to  dissuade  Gladys  from 
anything  she  has  set  her  mind  upon.  I  never  saw  anybody 


LIZ  HEPBURN.  211 

so  '  sot,'  as  Artenms  Ward  would  say.  She  's  positive  to  the 
verge  of  obstinacy.  But  what  makes  you  have  any  feeling 
in  the  matter,  I  can  't  imagine.  You  never  even  saw  the  girl 
in  your  life." 

"No;  but  I  feel  interested  in  her  all  the  same;  and 
I  say-" 

She  broke  off  there  rather  suddenly,  and  meditatively 
brushed  her  hair  for  a  few  seconds  in  silence. 

"  Did  you  notice  that  afternoon  we  had  the  tea — after  all 
the  people  were  gone,  you  remember — that  Cousin  George 
spilled  the  contents  of  a  cup  on  mamma's  gown?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  that,  of  course;  but  what  can  it  have 
to  do  with  Gladys  and  this  Hepburn  girl?'' 

"  Did  nothing  occur  to  you  in  connection  with  his  un- 
usual awkwardness?  Don't  }~ou  remember  what  wo  were 
talking  of  at  the  time?" 

"  No,"  replied  Clara,  and  she  paused  with  her  bodice  half 
pulled  over  her  lovely  shoulders,  and  a  slow  wonder  on  her 
beautiful  placid  face. 

"Well,  Gladys  was  telling  us  at  the  very  moment  about 
the  disappearance  of  this  Hepburn  girl,  as  you  call  her,  and 
I  happened  to  be  looking  at  Cousin  George  while  she  was 
speaking ;  and,  Clara,  I  can  't  for  the  life  of  me  help  thinking 
he  knows  something  about  it." 

No  sooner  were  the  words  out  of  her  mouth  than  Mina 
saw  that  she  had  made  a  profound  mistake.  The  red  color 
leaped  into  her  sister's  face,  dyeing  even  the  curves  of  her 
stately  throat. 

"I  think  you  are  a  wicked,  uncharitable  girl,  Mina,"  she 
said,  with  icy  coldness.  "  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to 
have  such  a  thought  for  a  moment.  I  only  beg  of  you  not 
to  let  it  go  any  further.  It  may  do  more  harm  than  you 
think." 

So  saying,  Clara  gathered  up  all  her  wraps  and  marched 
off  to  her  own  room,  leaving  her  sister  feeling  rather  hurt 
and  humiliated,  though  not  iu  the  least  convinced  that  she 


212  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

bad  simply  given  rein  to  an  uncharitable  imagination.  ^1  ina 
was  indeed  so  much  troubled  that  she  slept  uneasily — 
a  most  unusual  experience  for  her;  and  the  morning  failed  to 
banish,  as  it  often  benignly  banishes,  the  misgivings  of  the 
night. 

Once  more  Gladys  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  old  homo 
where  Walter  dwelt  alone,  working  early  and  late,  the  mo- 
notony of  his  toil  only  brightened  by  one  constant  hope. 
It  was  a  strange  existence  for  the  lad  on  the  threshold  of  his 
young  manhood,  and  many  who  knew  something  of  his  way 
of  life  wondered  at  the  steady  and  dogged  persistence  with 
which  he  pursued  his  vocation.  He  appeared  to  have 
reached,  while  yet  not  much  past  his  boyhood,  the  grave, 
passionless  calm  which  comes  to  most  men  only  after  they 
have  outlived  the  passion  of  their  youth.  He  was  regarded 
as  a  sharp,  hard-working  young  man,  with  a  keen  eye  for 
business,  and  honorable  and  just ;  but  conspicuously  hard  to 
deal  with — one  whose  word  was  as  his  bond,  and  who,  being 
so  absolutely  reliable  himself,  suffered  no  equivocation  or 
crooked  dealings  in  others.  By  slow  but  certain  degrees  he 
had  extricated  himself  from  the  strange  net-work  which  old 
Abel  Graham  had  woven  about  the  business,  and  established 
it  upon  the  basis  of  sound,  straightforward  dealing.  The 
old  customers,  in  spite  of  certain  advantages  the  new  system 
offered,  dropped  away  from  him  one  by  one,  but  others  took 
their  place.  When  Walter  balanced  his  books  at  the  end  of 
the  first  year,  he  had  reason  to  be  not  only  content  but 
elated,  and  he  was  enabled  to  carry  out  at  once  certain  ex- 
tensions which  he  had  quite  expected  would  only  be  justi- 
fiable after  the  lapse  of  some  years. 

But  while  prospering  beyond  his  highest  anticipations, 
what  of  the  growth  of  the  true  man,  the  development  of  the 
great  human  soul  which  craves  a  higher  destiny  than  mere 
groveling  among  the  sordid  things  of  earth  ?  While  supremely 
unconscious  of  any  change  in  himself,  there  was  neverthe- 
less a  great  change — a  very  great  change,  indeed.  It  was 


"LIZ  HEPBURN.  213 

inevitable.  A  life  so  narrow,  so  circa  in  scribed,  so  barren  of 
beauty,  lived  so  solitarily  away  from  every  softening  influ- 
ence, was  bound  to  work  a  subtle  and  relentless  change. 
The  man  of  one  idea  is  apt  to  starve  his  soul  in  his  effort  to 
make  it  subservient  to  the  furtherance  of  his  solitary  aim. 
To  be  a  successful  man,  to  win  by  his  own  unaided  effort  a 
position  which  would  entitle  him  to  meet  Gladys  Graham  on 
equal  ground — such  was  his  ambition,  and  it  never  did  occur 
to  him  that  this  very  striving  might  make  him  unfit  in  other 
ways  to  be  her  mate.  His  isolated  life,  absolutely  unrelieved 
by  any  social  intei-course  with  bis  fellows,  made  him  silent 
by  choice,  still  and  self-contained  in  manner,  abrupt  of 
speech.  In  his  unconsciousness  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  it  is  the  little  courtesies  and  graces  of  speech  and  action 
which  commend  a  man  first  to  the  notice  of  the  woman  he 
wants  to  win.  He  was,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  a  melan- 
choly spectacle,  but  his  awakening  was  at  hand. 

Gladys  made  her  second  call  at  the  house  in  Colquhoun 
street  as  before — early  in  the  da}7.  It  seemed  very  familiar, 
though  it  was  many  months  since  she  had  passed  that  way. 
It  seemed  a  more  hopeless  and  squalid  street  than  she  had 
yet  thought  it,  as  she  picked  her  steps  daintily  through  the 
greasy  mud.  The  warehouse  door,  contrary  to  the  old  cus- 
tom, stood  wide  open,  as  if  inviting  all  comers.  Gladys 
gave  a  glance  along  the  passage  which  led  to  the  living 
rooms,  but  was  not  moved  to  revisit  them.  She  went  at 
once  up  the  grimy  staircase,  giving  a  little  light  cough  as 
she  neared  the  landing — a  herald  of  her  coming.  She  heard 
quite  distinctly  the  grating  of  the  stool  on  the  floor,  and  a 
step  coming  toward  her — a  step  which  even  now  sounded 
quite  familiarly  in  her  ears. 

"  It  is  I,  Gladys,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  quite  natu- 
rally, but  conscious  of  a  shrinking  embarrassment  which 
made  her  cheeks  nervously  flush.  "  The  door  was  open,  so  I 
came  right  in.  How  are  you,  Walter?" 

In  his  face  shone  something  of  the  old  bright  friendliness ; 


214  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

but  as  she  looked  at  the  shabby  youth,  with  his  unshaved 
face  and  threadbare  clothes,  her  fastidious  eye  disapproved 
of  him,  just  as  it  had  disapproved  of  him  when  they  met, 
boy  and  girl,  for  the  first  time  in  the  rooms  below. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  he  answered,  in  his  quick,  abrupt,  un- 
smiling manner.  "  But  why  do  you  always  come  without 
any  warning  ?  If  you  let  me  know,  I  should  be  ready  for  3*ou. 
I  am  always  busy  in  the  morning,  and  a  fellow  who  has  so 
much  hard  work  to  do  can't  always  be  in  trim  to  receive 
ladies." 

It  was  rather  an  ungracious  greeting,  which  Gladys  was 
quick  enough  to  resent.  The  gentle  meakness  of  the  girl 
had  merged  itself  into  the  dignity  of  the  woman,  which  in- 
sists upon  due  deference  being  paid. 

"  I  am  quite  sorry  if  I  intrude,  AValter,"  she  said,  rather 
stiffly.  "  I  shall  not  keep  you  long.  All  the  same,  I  am 
coming  in  to  sit  down  for  a  little,  as  I  have  something  very 
particular  to  speak  to  you  about/' 

"  Come  in ;  of  course,  you  know  I  am  glad  to  see  you," 
he  said  hurriedly,  and  Gladys  could  not  help  rather  enjoying 
his  evident  confusion.  If  he  felt  nervous  and  awkward  in 
her  presence,  it  was  no  more  than  he  deserved  to  feel,  since 
she  was  so  entirely  unchanged. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  the  grace  to  be  civil,  at  least,"  she 
said,  with  a  bewildering  smile,  which  vanished,  however, 
when  she  seated  herself  on  the  battered  old  office-stool.  All 
her  anxiety  and  troubled  concern  made  her  face  grave  to  sad- 
ness as  she  put  the  question — 

"  Do  you  know  that  your  sister  is  in  Glasgow?" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A.  TROUBLED 


ALTER  did  not  know.  His  expression  of  sur- 
prise, tinged  with  alarm  and  a  touch  of  shame, 
answered  her  before  he  spoke. 

'•  How  do  you  know  that?"  he  asked. 
"  I  saw  her  last  night  in  Berkeley  Street,  just 
outside  the  Crown  Halls,  where  we  were  at  a  concert,"  said 
Gladys.     •'  Is  it  possible  you  have  never  seen  her?" 

;i  .No  ;  and  I  do  n't  believe  it  was  her  you  saw.  You  must 
have  made  a  mistake,"  replied  Walter,  quickly. 

•'  It  was  no  mistake,  because  she  looked  into  our  carriage, 
and  I  saw  her  quite  plainly.  Besides,  do  you  think  that  any 
one  who  has  seen  Liz  once  would  ever  forget  her  face?  I 
have  never  seen  one  like  it." 

"I  don't  know  linything  about  it,  and  I  care  less.  " 
Walter  said,  with  unpromising  hardness. 

Gladys  did  not  know  that  the  simple  announcement 
she  had  brought  to  him  in  all  faith,  believing  even  that  he 
might  be  in  a  sense  relieved  and  glad  to  hear  it.  tortured 
him  to  the  very  soul.  He  felt  so  bitter  against  Gladys  at  the 
moment  that  he  could  have  ordered  her  away.  Her  dainty 

215 


216  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

presence,  her  air  of  ladyhood,  her  beautiful  ways,  almost 
maddened  him;  but  Gladys  was  quite  unconscious  of  it. 

"Have you  not  been  at  your  father's  house  lately,  then?" 
she  asked.  "  Of  course,  she  must  be  there.  How  glad  they 
will  be  to  have  her  safely  at  home  again  !  Do  you  think  she 
would  be  glad  to  see  me  if  I  went  to-day  ?" 

"  No ;  she  would  n't,  even  if  she  were  there,  which  I 
know  is  not  the  case.  I  was  there  myself  yesterday,  and 
they  had  never  heard  anything  about  her.  1  wish  to  heaven 
you  would  leave  us  alone,  and  let  us  sink  into  the  mire  we 
are  made  for.  We  do  n't  want  such  fine  ladies  as  you  com- 
ing patronizing  us,  and  trj'ing  to  make  pious  examples  of  us. 
We  are  quite  happy — 0,  quite  happy — as  we  are!" 

He  spoke  with  an  awful  bitterness,  with  a  passion  which 
made  him  terrible  to  look  upon  ;  but  Gladys  only  shrank  a 
little,  only  a  little,  under  this  angry  torrent.  Her  vision 
was  clearer  than  a  year  ago.  She  read  the  old  friend  now 
with  unerring  skill,  and  looked  at  him  steadily,  with  gentle, 
sorrowful  eyes. 

"  You  are  very  angry,  Walter,  and  you  think  it  is  with 
me,  but  I  know  better,  and  you  can  not  prevent  me  trying 
to  find  out  what  has  become  of  poor  Lizzie.  I  loved  her, 
and  love  has  certain  rights ;  even  you  will  admit  that." 

Her  gentle  words  relieved  the  tension  of  his  passion,  and 
he  became  calmer  in  moment. 

"  If  it  is  true  that  she  is  in  Glasgow,  it  is  easy  knowing 
what  has  become  of  her,"  he  said,  with  an" ironical  smile. 
"  Take  my  advice  and  let  her  alone.  She  never  was  company 
for  you,  anyhow,  and  now  less  than  ever.  Let  her  alone." 

"  O,  I  can't  do  that,  Walter.  You  have  no  idea  how  much 
I  have  thought  about  her.  It  has  often  kept  me  from  sleep- 
ing, I  assure  you.  I  have  so  many  blessings,  I  wish  to  share 
them.  To  make  others  happy  is  all  the  use  money  is  for." 

Walter  was  secretly  touched — secretly  yearning  over  her 
with  a  passion  of  admiration,  ay,  and  of  sympathy ;  but  his 
passive  face  betrayed  nothing.  He  listened  as  he  might  have 


A  TROl'BLED  HEART.  217 

listened  to  a  customer's  complaint,  yet  with  even  a  slighter 
exhibition  of  interest.  Strange  that  he  should  thus  be  goaded 
against  his  better  impulses  to  show  so  harsh  a  front  to  the 
being  he  passionately  loved,  unless  it  was  part  of  the  role  he 
had  mapped  out  for  himself. 

"  I  heard  that  you  had  invited  Teen  Balfour  to  your 
estate.  Is  she  there  yet?"  he  asked,  and  Gladys  did  not 
know  whether  he  asked  in  scorn  or  in  jest. 

"  Yes,  she  is  at  Bourhill  still,  and  will  remain  for  some 
time.  Have  you  got  anj'body  in  Mrs.  Macintyre's  place?  It 
was  rather  selfish  of  me,  perhaps,  to  take  her  away  without 
consulting  you." 

"It  didn't  affect  me  in  the  least,  I  assure  you.  Mrs. 
Macintyre  was  not  indispensable  to  my  comfort.  So  you 
like  being  a  fine,  rich  lady.  Don't  you  remember  how  I 
prophesied  you  would,  and  how  indignant  you  were?  After 
all,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  worldly  wisdom  in  the  slums." 

"You  prophesied  that  I  should  in  a  week  forget,  or  wish 
to  forget,  this  place,  and  that  has  not  come  true,  since  I  am 
here  to-day,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile,  though  her  heart  was 
sore.  "  Won't  you  tell  me  now  how  you  are  getting  on  ? 
Excuse  me  saying  that  I  do  n't  think  you  look  very  prosper- 
ous or  very  happy." 

"Nevertheless,  the  thing  will  pay.  There  isn't  an}r 
doubt  about  the  prosperity.  As  for  the  happiness,"  he  added, 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  I  don't  think  there  is  much 
real  happinessfin  this  world." 

"  O  yes,  there  is!"  she  cried  eagerly.  "A  great  deal  of 
it,  if  only  one  will  take  the  trouble  to  look  for  it.  It  is  in 
little  things,  Walter,  that  happiness  is  found ;  and  you  might 
be  very  happy  indeed,  if  you  would  not  delight  in  being  so 
bitter  and  morose.  It  is  so  very  bad  for  you.  Some  day 
when  you  want  to  throw  it  off,  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  so, 
because  it  will  have  become  a  habit  with  you.  I  must  tell 
you  quite  plainly  what  I  think,  because  it  makes  me  so  un- 
happy to  see  you  like  this.  You  always  remind  me  of  Ish- 


218  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

mael,  whose  hand  was  against  every  man.  What  has 
changed  you  so  terribly  ?'' 

"  Circumstances.  Yes,  I  am  the  victim  of  circum- 
stances." 

"  There  is  no  such  thing,"  said  Gladys,  calmly.  "  That  is 
a  phrase  with  which  people  console  themselves  in  misfor- 
tunes they  often  bring  upon  themselves.  If  you  would  only 
think  of  the  absurdity  of  what  you  are  saying.  You  have 
admitted  your  prosperity,  and  the  other  troubles — home 
troubles,  which  I  know  are  very  trying — need  not  overwhelm 
you.  You  are  much  less  manly,  Walter,  now  you  are  a  man, 
than  I  expected  you  to  be.  You  have  quite  disappointed 
me,  and  without  reason." 

He  was  surprised,  and  could  not  hide  it.  The  gentle, 
simple,  shrinking  girl  had  changed  into  a  self-reliant,  keen- 
sighted  woman,  and  from  the  serene  height  of  her  gracious 
womanhood  calmly  convicted  him  of  his  folly  and  his  beset- 
ting weakness,  and,  man-like,  his  first  impulse,  thus  con- 
victed was  to  resent  her  interference. 

"  Whatever  I  may  do,  it  can  't  affect  you  now,  you  are  so 
far  removed  from  me,"  he  said,  without  looking  at  her,  and 
Gladys,  disappointed  and  a  little  indignant,  rose  to  go. 

"  Very  well,  good-bye ;  it  is  always  the  same  kind  of 
good-bye,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  If  ever,  when  you  look  back 
upon  it,  it  should  grieve  you,  remember  it  was  always  your 
doing,  yours  alone.  But  even  yet,  though  you  may  not 
believe  it,  Walter,  your  old  friend  will  remain  quite  un- 
changed." 

His  face  flushed,  and  he  dashed  his  hand  with  a  hasty 
gesture  across  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  changed,"  he  said  huskily.  "  You  need  not 
reproach  me  with  that.  You  know  nothing  about  the  strug- 
gle it  is  for  me  here,  nor  what  I  have  to  fight  against.  It 
was  you  who  taught  me  first  to  be  discontented  with  my  lot, 
to  strive  after  something  higher.  I  sometimes  wish  now 
that  we  had  never  met." 


A   TROUBLED  HEART.  219 

"  Whatever  happens,  Walter,  I  shall  never  wish  that; 
and  I  hope  one  day  you  will  be  sorry  for  ever  having  said 
such  a  thing,"  she  said,  with  a  proud  ring  in  her  clear,  sweet 
voice.  "I  hope,  I  hope  one  clay  everything  will  be  made 
right;  just  now  it  all  seems  so  very  wrong  and  hard  to 
bear." 

She  left  him  hurriedly  then,  just  as  she  had  left  him  be- 
fore, at  the  moment  when  he  could  have  thrown  himself  at  her 
feet,  and  revealed  to  her  all  the  surging  passion  of  his  soul. 

Gladys  felt  so  saddened  and  disheartened  that  she  could 
not  bear  to  return  to  Bellairs  Crescent,  to  the  inevitable 
questioning  which  she  knew  awaited  her  there.  If  the  For- 
dyces  were  kind,  they  were  also  a  trifle  fussy,  and  sometimes 
nettled  Gladys  by  their  too  obvious  and  exacting  interest  in 
her  concerns.  She  ran  up  to  the  office  in  St.  Vincent  Street, 
and  told  Mr.  Fordyce  she  was  going  off  to  Mauchline  by  the 
one  o'clock  train,  and  begged  him  to  send  a  boy  with  an  ex- 
planation to  the  Crescent. 

Mr.  Fordyce  was  very  good-natured,  and  not  at  all 
curious — it  never  occurred  to  him  to  try  and  dissuade  her 
from  such  a  hurried  departure,  or  pester  her  with  questions 
about  it.  He  simply  set  her  down  to  write  her  note  at  his 
own  desk,  and  then  took  her  out  to  lunch,  and  finally  put 
her  in  her  train,  all  in  his  own  easy,  pleasant,  fatherly  way, 
and  Gladys  felt  profoundly  grateful  to  him. 

Her  arrival  being  unexpected,  there  was  no  one  to  meet 
her  at  Mauchline  Station  ;  but  the  two-and-a-half  mile  walk 
did  not  in  the  least  disconcert  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  clear, 
cool  south  wind — the  wind  the  huntsman  loves — blew  all  the 
city  cobwebs  from  her  brain,  and  again  raised  her  somewhat 
jaded  spirits.  She  could  even  think  hopefully  of  Liz,  and  her 
mind  was  full  of  schemes  for  her  redemption,  when  she  espied, 
at  a  short  distance  from  her  own  gates,  the  solitary  figure 
of  Teen,  with  her  hand  shading  her  eyes,  looking  anxiously 
down  the  road.  She  had  found  life  at  Bourhill  insufferably 
dull  without  its  mistress. 


220  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Have  ye  walkit  a'  that  distance?"  she  cried,  breathlessly, 
having  run  all  her  might  to  meet  her.  "  Ye  '11  be  deid  tired. 
What  way  did  ye  no  send  word?" 

"Because  I  came  off  all  in  a  hurry  this  morning,"  an- 
swered Gladys,  with  a  smile,  for  the  warm  welcome  glowing  in 
the  large  eyes  of  the  little  seamstress  did  her  good.  "And  how 
have  you  been — you  and  Miss  Peck  and  all  the  people?" 

"Fine;  but,  my,  it's  grand  to  see  you  back!"  said  Teen, 
with  a  boundless  satisfaction.  "It's  no  like  the  same  place 
when  ye  are  away.  "An' hoo's  Glesca  lookin' — as  dreich 
as  ever?" 

"Quite;  and,  0  Teen,  I  have  found  Liz  at  last!  I  saw 
her  last  night  in  Berkeley  Street." 

"  Saw  Liz  in  Berkeley  Street?  Surely,  never!"  repeated 
Teen,  aghast. 

"  It 's  quite  true.  I  think  she  can  not  have  been  away 
from  Glasgow,  at  all.  We  must  try  and  find  her,  you  and  I, 
and  get  her  down  here." 

"I'll  get  her,  if  she's  in  Glesca!"  cried  Teen,  excitedly. 
"Did  ye  speak  to  her?  What  did  she  look  like?" 

"  Yery  ill,  I  thought,  and  strange,"  answered  Gladys, 
slowly.  "  She  only  peeped  into  our  carriage  window  as  we 
drove  away  from  the  concert  hall." 

"It's  queer!"  said  Teen,  musingly.  "Very  queer!  I 
feel  as  if  I  wad  like  to  gang  back  to  Glesca  this  very  day  and 
see  her." 

"  You  might  go  to-morrow,  if  you  like,"  said  Gladys.  "  I 
daresay  you  will  find  her  much  quicker  than  I  should;  she 
would  not  be  so  shy  of  you." 

Teen  turned  her  head  and  gave  Gladys  a  strange,  intent 
look,  which  seemed  to  ask  a  question.  The  girl  was,  indeed, 
asking  herself  whether  it  might  not  be  better  to  let  the  whole 
matter  rest.  She  suspected  that  there  might  be  in  this  case 
wheels  within  wheels,  which  might  seriously  involve  the 
happiness  of  her  who  deserved,  above  all  others,  the  highest 
happiness  the  world  can  give.  The  little  seamstress  was 


A   TROUBLED  HEART. 


221 


perplexed,  saddened,  half-afraid,  torn  between  two  loves  and 
two  desires.  She  wished  she  knew  how  much  or  how  little 
George  Fordyce  was  to  Gladys  Graham,  yet  dared  not  to 
ask  the  question. 

But  so  great  was  the  absorbing  desire  of  Glad}~s  to  find 
means  of  communication  with  Liz  that  she  would  not  let 
the  matter  rest. 

Next  day  the  visit  of  the  little  seamstress  to  Bourhill  was 
bi'ought  apparently  to  a  very  sudden  end,  and  she  returned 
to  town  ;  not,  however,  to  sue  for  work  at  the  hands  of  the 
stony-visaged  forewoman,  but  to  carry  out  the  behest  of 
the  young  lady  of  Bourhill. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


A  \VAKEN  ING. 


HE  interview  with  Gladys  upset  Walter  for  the 
day.  When  she  was  gone,  he  found  it  impossible 
to  fix  his  attention  on  his  books,  or  any  of  the 
details  of  his  business.  He  could  not  even  sit 
still,  but  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down  his 
domain,  trying  to  unravel  his  own  thoughts.  The  subtle 
fragrance  of  her  presence,  like  some  rare  perfume,  seemed 
to  pervade  the  place,  and  her  words  continued  to  haunt  him 
till  he  felt  angry  and  impatient  with  her,  with  himself,  with 
all  the  world.  He  had  now  two  persons  in  his  employment — 
a  man  who  delivered  goods  on  a  hand-barrow,  and  a  lad  who 
filled  a  position  similar  to  that  which  had  been  Walter's  own 
in  Abel  Graham's  daj*s. 

When  this  lad  returned  after  the  dinner  hour,  Walter  left 
him  in  charge,  and  took  himself  into  the  streets,  pursued  by 
that  vague  restlessness  he  could  neither  understand  nor 
shake  off.  Looking  in  at  the  mirrored  window  of  a  great 
shop  in  St.  Vincent  Street,  he  saw  the  image  of  himself  re- 
flected, a  tall,  lean  figure,  shabbily  clad,  an  image  which 
filled  him  with  a  sudden  loathing  and  contempt.  He  stood 
quite  still,  and  calmly  appraised  liimsi-Jf.  taking  in  even' 
222 


AN  AWAKENING.  223 

meager  detail  of  his  appearance,  rioting  the  grimy  hue  of  the 
collar  he  had  worn  three  days,  the  glazed  front  of  the  frayed 
black  tie,  the  soft  greasy  rim  of  the  old  hat.  Yes,  he  told 
himself,  he  was  a  most  disagreeable-looking  object,  with  noth- 
ing in  his  appearance  to  suggest  prosperity,  or  even  decent 
comfort.  A  grim  humor  smote  him  suddenly,  and  thrusting 
his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  brought  it  out  full  of  money,  and 
rapidly  counted  it.  Then  he  opened  the  door  of  the  fashion- 
able tailor's,  and  walked  in.  He  was  regarded,  as  was  to  be 
expected,  a  trifle  superciliously  by  the  immaculately-attired 
young  gentlemen  therein. 

"  I  want  a  suit  of  clothes,"  he  said,  in  his  straight,  abrupt 
fashion.  "  A  good  suit — the  best  you  have  in  your  shop." 

The  young  gentlemen  regarded  him  and  each  other  with 
such  significance  in  their  glances  that  their  shabby-looking 
customer  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  I  can  be  served  elsewhere,  I  guess,  without  so  much 
hesitation,"  he  said,  and  in  an  instant  he  was  intercepted 
with  profuse  apologies,  and  patterns  of  the  best  materials  in 
the  shop  laid  before  him. 

"  I  '11  take  this,"  said  Walter,  after  refusing  several. 

"  It  is  very  expensive,  sir — beautiful  material ;  but  a  suit 
made  to  measure  will  be  five  guineas,"  said  the  young  gentle- 
man, suggestively. 

"  I  '11  take  it,  said  Walter,  cal  inly.  "And  I  want  an  overcoat 
and  a  hat  and  some  other  things.  Show  me  what  you  have." 

The  fascination  of  choosing  new  garments  for  personal 
wear  was  upon  Walter  Hepburn,  and  he  spent  a  whole  hour 
in  the  shop,  selecting  an  outfit  which  did  credit  to  his  taste 
and  discernment.  Before  that  hour  was  over  he  had  risen 
very  considerably  in  the  opinion  of  those  who  served  .him — 
his  choice  invariably  falling  on  what  was  not  only  most  ex- 
pensive, but  in  the  best  taste. 

"  Now,  how  much  is  to  pay?  I'll  pay  ready  money 
to-day,  and  send  for  the  things  when  they  are  ready,  which 
1  hope  will  be  soon," 


224  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Very  well,  sir ;  but  there  is  no  hurry,  I  assure  you," 
said  the  young  gentleman,  suavely.  "  Payment  on  delivery 
is  always  quite  satisfactory." 

"  I  '11  pay  to-day,"  Walter  replied,  with  his  hand  in  his 
pocket;  and  when  the  bill  was  presented,  he  ran  his  eye  over 
it  without  a  change  of  face. 

"  Twelve  pounds  eight  shillings  and  two-pence,"  he  said, 
slowly,  and  counted  out  the  bank  notes  carelessly,  as  if  the 
handling  of  them  was  his  daily  work.  Then,  having  made 
arrangements  for  fitting,  he  went  his  way,  leaving  a  very 
odd  impression  on  the  minds  of  the  shop  people.  Had  he 
heard  their  surmises  and  comments  he  would  have  felt  at 
once  amused  and  chagrined.  From  St.  Vincent  Street  he 
sauntered  back  to  Argyle  Street,  and  took  a  Bridgeton  car. 
Thoughts  of  Liz  were  crowding  thick  and  fast  upon  him, 
and  he  found  himself  scanning  the  faces  of  the  people  in  the 
crowded  streets,  and  even  looking  up  expectantly  each  time 
the  car  stopped,  assuring  himself  he  would  not  be  in  the  least 
surprised  were  his  sister  to  appear  suddenly  before  him.  He 
was  ill  at  ease  concerning  her.  If  it  were  true  that  she  was 
in  Glasgow,  then  his  first  fears  concerning  her  were  likely  to 
have  some  foundation.  It  was  curious  that  all  resentment 
seemed  to  have  died  out  of  his  mind,  and  that  he  felt  noth- 
ing but  an  indescribable  longing  to  see  her  again. 

Strange  and  unnatural  as  it  may  seem,  he  had  not  for  a 
very  long  time  felt  any  such  kindly  affection  towards  his 
parents.  He  did  his  duty  by  them  so  far  as  the  giving  of 
money  was  concerned ;  but  they  lay  upon  his  heart  like  a 
heavy  weight,  and  he  lived  in  dread  of  some  calamity  hap- 
pening, for  they  were  seldom  sober.  He  could  not  help  ask- 
ing himself  sometimes  whether  he  was  justified  in  giving 
them  so  liberal  an  allowance,  since  relief  from  all  pecuniary 
anxiety  seemed  to  have  only  made  them  more  dissipated  and 
abandoned.  It  was  very  seldom,  indeed,  that  his  father  now 
wrought  a  day's  work.  These  werja  heavy  burdens  for  the 
young  man  to  bear,  and  he  may  be  forgiven  bis  morbid 


AN  AWAKENING.  225 

pride,  his  apparent  hardness  of  heart.  It  is  a  common  say- 
ing that  living  sorrows  are  worse  than  death — they  eat  like 
a  canker  into  the  soul. 

It  was  his  anxiety  about  Liz  which  took  Walter  to  the 
dreary  house  in  Bridgeton  at  that  unusual  hour  of  the  day. 
He  thought  it  quite  likely  that  if  she  were  in  Glasgow  they 
would  have  seen  or  heard  something  of  her.  He  made  a 
point  of  visiting  them  once  a  week,  and  his  step  was  never 
buoyant  as  he  ascended  that  weary  stair,  nor  when  he  de- 
scended it  on  his  homeward  way ;  for  he  was  either  saddened 
and  oppressed  anew  with  their  melancholy  state,  or  wearied 
with  reproaches,  or  disgusted  with  petty  grumblings  and  un- 
savory details  of  the  neighbors'  shortcomings  and  domestic 
affairs.  It  is  a  tragedy  we  see  daily  in  our  midst ;  this  grad- 
ual estrangement  of  those  bound  by  ties  of  blood,  and  who 
ought,  but  can  not  possibly  be,  bound  by  ties  of  love.  Love 
must  be  cherished ;  it  is  only  in  the  rarest  instances  it  can 
survive  the  frost  of  indifference  and  neglect.  The  drink- 
fiend  has  no  respect  of  persons ;  the  sanctity  of  home  and 
God-given  affections  is  ruthlessly  destroyed,  high  and  holy 
ambitions  sacrificed,  hearts  remorselessly  broken — graves 
dug  above  the  heaveuliest  hopes. 

Walter  Hepburn  was  always  grave — oftentimes  sorrowful, 
because  with  the  years  had  come  fuller  knowledge,  keener 
perception,  clearer  visions  that  the  sorrows  of  his  youth 
were  sorrows  which  could  darken  his  young  manhood  and 
shadow  all  his  future.  It  was  a  profound  relief  to  him  that 
day  to  find  his  mother  tidier  than  usual,  busy  with  prepara- 
tions for  the  midday  meal.  He  never  knew  how  he  should 
find  them ;  too  often  a  visit  to  that  home  made  him  sick  at 
heart. 

"  Ye  are  an  early  visitor,  my  man,"  his  mother  said  in 
surprise.  "  What's  brocht  ye  here  at  sic  a  time?" 

"Is  Liz  here?"  he  inquired,  with  a  quick  glance  round 
the  kitchen. 

"  Liz !     No." 

15 


226  THE  G  UINEA  STAMP. 

In  her  surprise  at  this  unexpected  question,  Mrs.  Hep- 
burn paused,  with  the  lid  of  the  broth-pot  in  her  hand,  look- 
ing wonderingly  into  her  son's  face. 

"  What  gars  ye  ask  that  ?" 

"  I  heard  she  was  in  Glasgow ;  that 's  why?"  Walter  an- 
swered, cautiously.  "  Where  's  the  old  man  ?  Not  working, 
surely." 

"Ay,  he's  turned  over  a  new  leaf  for  three  days,  workin' 
orra  at  Stevenson's ;  they're  short  o'  men  the  noo.  He  '11  be 
in  to  his  denner  the  noo.  Will  ye  tak'  a  bite  wi'  us?  It's 
lang  since  ye  broke  breid  in  this  hoose." 

"  I  do  n't  mind  if  I  do,"  replied  Walter,  laying  off  his 
hat  and  drawing 'the  arm-chair  up  to  the  fire.  "  So  you  have 
never  seen  Liz.  The  person  that  saw  her  must  have  made 
a  mistake." 

"Wha  was't?" 

"  A  lady.  You  do  n't  know  her.  Have  you  never  heard 
anything  about  her  at  all,  then?" 

"No  a  cheep.  She's  in  London,  they  say — the  folk  that 
pretend  to  ken  a'thing.  I  'in  sure  I  'm  no  carin'." 

"  And  my  father 's  really  working  this  week.  O  mother, 
if  only  he  would  keep  steady,  it  would  make  all  the  differ- 
ence !  You  look  better  yourself,  too.  Are  you  net  far  better 
without  drink?" 

"  Maybe.  We  've  made  a  paction,  ony way  for  a  week, 
till  we  see,"  said  Mrs.  Hepburn,  with  a  slow  smile.  "  The 
way  o't  was  this.  We  fell  out  wan  day,  an'  ho  cuist  up  to  me 
that  I  couldna  keep  frae't;  an'  I  jist  says — says  I — ye  canna 
keep  frae't  yersel' ;  an'  it 's  for  spite  we  're  no  touchin't.  I 
dinna  think  mysel'  he'll  staun'  oot  past  Saturday." 

Walter  could  not  forbear  a  melancholy  smile. 

"It's  not  a  very  high  motive,  but  better  spite  than  no 
motive  at  all,"  he  answered.  "D'ye  think,  mother,  that  Liz 
can  be  in  Glasgow?" 

"  Hoo  should  I  ken  ?  There 's  your  father's  fit  on  the 
stair,  an'  the  taties  no  ready,  but  they'll  be  saft  in  a  jiffey. 


AN  A  WAKENING.  227 

He  canna  wait  a  meenit  for  his  meat.  As  I  say,  he  thinks 
itr  should  be  walkin'  down  the  stair  to  meet  him.  Ay,  my 
man,  it's  you  I'm  on." 

She  made  a  great  clatter  with  knives  and  spoons  on  the 
table,  and  then  made  a  rush  to  pour  the  water  off  the  po- 
tatoes. 

"  Hulloa,  Wat,  what 's  up?"  inquired  the  old  man,  as  gen- 
uinely surprised  as  his  wife  had  been  to  see  his  son. 

'•  I  heard  Liz  was  in  Glasgow,  and  I  came  to  see  if  she 
was  here,"  answered  Walter.  "So  3-0 u 're  working  again. 
I  must  say  work  a.grees  with  you,  father ;  you  look  a  differ- 
ent man." 

"  O,  I  'm  no  past  wark.  If  I  like  I  can  dae  my  darg  wi' 
oriy  man,"  he  replied,  rather  ironically.  "  Pit  oot  the  kale, 
Leezbeth,  or  we  ;11  be  burnt  to  daith.  Are  ye  slack  yersel' 
that  ye  can  come  ower  here  at  wan  o'clock  in  the  day?  ' 

"I'm  slacker  than  I  was,"  said  Walter,  "but  I  can't  com- 
plain either." 

"An'  what  was  that  ye  said  aboot  Liz? — that  she  was  here 
in  Glesca?  Wool,  if  she  is,  she 's  never  lookit  near.  It's 
gentry  bairns  we  hue,  Leezbeth  ;  let 's  be  thankfu'  for  them." 

This  mild  sarcasm  did  not  greatly  affect  Walter;  he  was 
too  familiar  with  it. 

"  I  heard  she  had  been  seen,  but  perhaps  it  was  a  mis- 
take. It  must  have  been,  or  she  would  surely  have  come 
here.  You  are  working  at  Stevenson's,  mother  says.  Will 
it  be  permanent?" 

"  I  '11  see.  It  depends  on  hoo  I  feel,"  replied  the  old  man, 
complacently.  "  I  've  been  in  waur  places,  an'  the  gaffer  's 
very  slack.  He  disna  work  a  ten  hoors'  day  ony  mair  than 
the  rest  o's." 

"  Though  you  are  paid  for  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Walter. 

"Ay,  but  naebody  but  a  born  fule  will  kill  himsel'  unless 
he  's  made  dae  %"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  would  n't  keep  a  man  who  did  n't  do  a  fair  day's  work 
for  a  fair  day's  wage,  nor  would  you,"  said  Walter.  "I  be- 


228  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

lievethat  nobody  would  make  more  tyrannical  masters  than 
working-men  themselves,  just  as  women  who  have  been 
servants  themselves  make  the  most  exacting  mistresses." 

"  This  is  Capital  speakin'  noo,  Leezbeth,"  said  his  father, 
very  sarcastically.  "  It  's  kind  o'  amusin'.  We  're  the  twa 
sides,  as  it  were — Capital  and  Labor.  Ye  've  no  been  lang  o' 
forgettin'  whaur  ye  sprang  frae,  my  man.'' 

Walter's  father  had  been  a  skillful  workman  in  his  day, 
with  an  intelligence  above  the  average ;  had  he  kept  from 
drink  there  is  no  doubt  he  would  have  risen  from  the  ranks. 
Even  yet  gleams  of  the  old  spirit  which  had  often  displayed 
itself  at  workmen's  meetings  and  demonstrations  would  oc- 
casionally shine  forth.  Walter  was  thankful  to  see  it,  and 
after  spending  a  comparatively  pleasant  hour  with  them,  he 
went  his  way  with  a  lighter  and  happier  feeling  about  them 
than  he  had  experienced  for  many  a  day. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


TOO 


EORGE  FORDYCE  was  listening  to  a  maternal 
lecture  the  morning  after  a  dance,  at  which  he 
had  been  distributing  his  attentions  very  freely 
among  the  most  attractive  of  the  young  ladies 
present.   -The  .breakfast  was  nearly  an  hour  late, 
and  mother  and  son  partook  of  it  alone,  Mr.  Fordyce  being 
in  London  on  business,  and  the  fair  Julia  not  yet  out  of  bed. 
"It's  all  your  nonsense,  mother,''   said  George,  imper- 
turbably.     "1  didn't  pay  special   court  to  anybody  except 
Clara.     She  was  the  best  dancer  in  the  room,  and  very  nearly 
the  handsomest  girl." 

"  You  should  have  pity  on  Clara,  my  dear,''  his  mother 
said,  indulgently.  "  You  know  she  is  fond  of  you;  she  can't 
hide  it.  poor  thing,  and  it  is  a  shame  to  pay  her  too  much 
attention  in  public,  when  it  can't  come  to  anything.  ' 

"  I  can't  help  it  if  girls  will  be  silly,"  was  the  complacent 
reply.  "  Clara  is  all  very  well  as  a  cousin  ;  but  I  'd  like  more 
spirit  in  a  wife." 

"  It  strikes  me  you  will  get  enough  of  it  if  you  should  be 
successful  where  we  wish  you  to  be  successful,"  said  his 
mother,  with  a  keen  glance  across  the  table.  "  Gladys  Gra- 

220 


230  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

ham  is  a  very  self-willed  piece  of  humanity.  Tour  Aunt 
Isabel  told  me  only  yesterday  of  her  absurd  fad  to  have 
common  girls  visiting  her  at  Bourhill.  It  is  quite  time  some- 
body took  her  firmly  in  hand,  or  she  will  become  that  insuf- 
ferable kind  of  person,  a  woman  with  a  mission  to  set  the 
world  right." 

George  emptied  his  coffee-cup,  and  returned  his  mother's 
look  with  one  equally  steady  and  keen. 

"  There  is  no  use  going  on  at  me,  mother.  I've  done  all 
I  can  do  in  the  meantime.  I  asked  her,  and  she — " 

"Did  not  refuse  you,  I  hope,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
with  a  gasp. 

"  Well,  not  quite ;  she  said  I  must  leave  her  alone  for  a 
long  time,  and  I  mean  to.  It  is  n't  pleasant  for  a  fellow  to 
be  sat  on  by  a  girl — especially,"  he  added,  with  a  significant 
shrug,  "  when  he  is  n't  used  to  it." 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  when  all  this  happened.  You 
have  been  very  close  about  it,  George,"  his  mother  said, 
reproachfully, 

"I  wish  I  had  remained  close;  but  now  that  I  've  let  the 
cat  out,  I  may  as  well  tell  the  whole  tale.  It  was  only  a 
fortnight  ago — that  Saturday  afternoon  I  was  down  at  Bour- 
hill. I  had  no  intention  of  committing  myself  when  I  went ; 
but  somehow  I  got  carried  away,  and  asked  her.  I  believe  I 
should  have  had  a  more  favorable  answer ;  but  just  then  a 
maid  came  in  with  tea — as  they  always  do  when  nobody 
wants  them." 

"And  what  did  she  say?"  queried  Mrs.  Fordyce,  in 
breathless  interest. 

"Faith,  I  can't  remember  exactly,"  George  replied,  and 
his  mother  was  more  than  astonished  to  see  his  cheek  flush- 
ing. "  I  know  she  asked  me  to  wait,  and  not  to  bother  her. 
I  believe  she  '11  have  me  in  the  end  ;  anyhow,  I  mean  to  have 
her,  and  it's  the  same  thing,  is  n't  it?" 

"  I  hope  it  may  be ;  but  if  you  take  my  advice,  my  dear, 
do  n't  leave  her  alone  too  much,  in  case  somebody  else  more 


TOO  LATE!  231 

enterprising,  and  not  so  easily  repulsed,  should  step  in  before 
you.  If  I  were  a  man  I  would  n't  walk  off  for  a  girl's 
first  no." 

"You  don't  know  a  blessed  thing  about  what  you're 
talking  of,  mother,"  replied  George,  with  calm  candor.  "  It' 
you  were  a  man,  and  had  a  girl  looking  at  you  with  a  steady 
stare,  and  telling  you  to  get  out — well,  I  guess  you  'd  get 
out  pretty  quick,  that 's  all." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  laughed. 

""Well,  perhaps  so;  but  it  is  very  important  that  you 
should  follow  up  your  advantage,  however  slight  it  may  be. 
It  would  be  a  most  desirable  alliance.  Think  of  her  family. 
It  would  be  a  splendid  connection ;  you  would  be  a  county 
gentleman,  to  begin  with." 

"And  call  myself  Fordyce  Graham.  Eh,  mother?"  said 
George,  lazily.  "  There  are  worse-sounding  names ;  but 
Gladys  herself  affects  to  have  no  pride  in  her  long  descent. 
That  very  day  she  was  quoting  to  me  that  rot  of  Burns  about 
rank  being  only  the  guinea  stamp — and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  All  very  well  for  a  fellow  like  Burns,  who  was  only  a 
plowman.  It  has  done  Gladys  a  lot  of  harm  living  in  the  slums. 
It  won't  be  easy  eradicating  her  queer  notions,  I  can  tell  you." 

"0,  after  she  is  married,  if  you  take  her  well  in  hand,  it 
will  be  easy  enough,"  said  his  mother,  confidently.  "She 
did  not  give  you  a  positive  refusal,  then?" 

"No;  but  I'm  not  going  to  make  myself  too  cheap,"  said 
George.  "  It  seldom  pays,  in  any  circumstances;  in  dealings 
with  women — never.  They  set  all  the  more  store  by  a  fellow 
who  thinks  a  good  deal  of  himself." 

"  Then  you  should  be  very  successful,"  said  Mrs.  For- 
dyce, with  a  smile.  "Well,  remember  that  nothing  will  give 
your  father  and  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  hear  that  you 
are  engaged  to  Gladys  Graham." 

"Well,  I'd  better  get  out  of  this.  Twenty  minutes  to 
eleven  !  I  wonder  what  the  governor  would  say  if  he  were 
to  pop  in  just  now.  Thunder 's  not  in  it." 


232  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

So  the  amiable  and  self-satisfied  George  took  himself  off 
to  the  mill,  and  all  day  long  thought  much  of  his  mother's 
advice,  and  somehow  he  felt  himself  being  impelled  towards 
paying  another  visit  to  Bourhill.  Out  of  that  visit  arose 
portentous  issues,  which  were  to  have  the  strongest  possible 
influence  upon  the  future  of  Gladys  Graham.  He  found  her 
in  a  lonely  and  impressionable  mood,  and  left  the  house,  to 
his  own  profound  astonishment,  an  accepted  lover. 

That  very  evening,  after  he  was  gone,  Gladys  sat  by  the 
fire  in  her  spacious  drawing-room,  turning  upon  her  third 
finger  the  diamond  ring  George  Fordyce  had  transferred 
from  his  own  hand  to  hers,  whispering  as  he  did  so  that  she 
should  soon  have  one  worthier  of  her.  Watching  the  flash- 
ing of  the  stone  in  the  gleaming  firelight,  she  wondered  to 
see  tears  matching  the  diamonds  in  brilliance  falling  on  her 
gown.  She  did  not  understand  these  tears;  she  did  not 
think  herself  unhappy,  though  she  felt  none  of  that  passion- 
ate, trembling  joy  which  happy  love,  as  she  had  heard  and 
read  of  it,  is  entitled  to  feel.  She  realized  that  she  had  taken 
a  great  and  important  step  in  life,  and  that  it  seemed  to 
weigh  upon  her;  that  was  all.  In  her  loneliness  she  longed 
passionately  for  some  sympathetic  soul  to  lean  upon. 

Miss  Peck  had  gone  back  to  the  Fen  Country  to  see  a 
dying  friend,  and  for  some  days  she  had  heard  nothing  of 
Teen,  who  was  pursuing  in  Glasgow  her  search  for  the  lost 
and  mysterious  Liz.  In  the  midst  of  this  strange  reverie 
she  heard  footsteps  on  the  stair,  and  presently  a  knock  came 
to  the  door.  As  it  was  opened  the  silver  chimes  of  the  old 
brass  clock  rang  seven. 

"  Mr.  Hepburn." 

Gladys  sprang  up,  struck  by  the  familiar  name,  yet  not 
expecting  to  behold  her  old  companion  in  the  flesh  ;  and  there 
he  was,  standing  modestly,  yet  with  so  much  manliness 
and  courage  in  his  bearing,  that  she  could  not  forbear  a  little 
cry  of  welcome  as  she  ran  to  him  with  outstretched  hands. 
It  seemed  as  if  her  prayer  for  the  sympathy  of  one  who  un- 


TOO  LATE!  233 

derstood  her  was  answered  far  beyond  any  hope  or  expecta- 
tion she  had  cherished  regarding  it. 

"  O  Walter,  I  am  so  very  glad  to  see  you !  It  is  so  good 
of  you  to  come ;  I  have  so  often  wished  to  see  you  here. 
Come  away,  come  away!" 

The  accepted  lover,  at  that  moment  being  whirled  back 
by  express-train  to  Glasgow,  would  not  have  approved  of 
those  warm  words,  nor  of  the  light  shining  all  over  the  girl's 
sweet  face  as  she  uttered  them.  But  he  would  have  been 
compelled  to  admit  that  in  Gladys's  old  companion  of  the 
slums  he  had  no  mean  rival.  The  St.  Vincent  Street  tailor 
had  done  his  duty  by  his  eccentric  customer,  and  not  only 
given  him  value  for  his  money,  but  converted  him,  so  far  as 
outward  appearance  goes,  into  a  new  man.  Philosophers 
and  cynics  have  from  time  to  time  had  their  fling  at  the  tyr- 
anny of  clothes,  but  it  still  remains  an»undisputed  fact  that 
a  well-dressed  man  is  always  much  more  comfortable  and 
self-respecting  than  an  ill-dressed  one. 

When  Walter  Hepburn  beheld  the  new  man  the  tailor 
had  turned  out,  a  strange  change  came  over  him,  and  he  saw 
in  himself  possibilities  hitherto  undreamed  of.  He  realized, 
for  the  first  time,  that  he  looked  fitter  than  most  men  to  win 
a  woman's  approval,  and  I  am  quite  safe  in  saying  that 
Gladys  owed  this  totally  unlooked-for  visit  entirely  to  the 
St.  Vincent  Street  tailor. 

"  So  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  repeated,  and  she  thought 
it  no  treachery  to  her  absent  lover  to  keep  hold  of  the  hand 
she  had  taken  in  greeting.  "And  looking  so  nice  and  so 
handsome.  0  Walter!  now  I  am  no  longer  unhappy  about 
you,  for  I  see  you  have  awakened  at  last  to  a  sense  of  what 
you  ought  to  be." 

It  was  a  tribute  to  clothes,  but  it  sank  with  unalloyed 
sweetness  into  the  young  man's  heart. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,  Gladys,  and  I  do  not  deserve 
any  such  welcome.  I  was  afraid,  indeed,  that  you  might 
refuse  to  see  me,  as  you  would  be  perfectly  justified  in  doing." 


234  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"O  Walter!"  she  said,  reproachfully.  "  llo\\r  dare  you 
say  such  a  thing?  Refuse  to  see  you,  indeed !  Do  sit  down 
and  tell  me  every  thing.  Do  you  know,  it  is  just  my  dinner- 
hour,  and  you  shall  dine  with  me;  and  how  delightful  that 
will  be!  I  thought  of  sending  down  to  say  I  did  n't  wish 
any  dinner;  it  is  so  lonely  eating  alone." 

"Where  is  the  lady  who  lives  with  you?  You  had  a 
lady,  had  n't  you?" 

"  Yes ;  Miss  Peck.  She  has  gone  back  to  Lincoln  to  see 
her  aunt;  who  is  dying,  and  I  am  quite  alone;  though  to- 
morrow I  expect  one  of  Mr.  Fordyce's  daughters.  And  now 
tell  me,  have  you  heard  anything  of  Liz?" 

The  voice  sank  to  a  grave  whisper,  and  her  eyes  grew 
luminous  with  anxiety  and  sympathetic  concern. 

"Nothing,"  Walter  answered,  with  a  shake  of  his  head. 
"And  I  have  been  inquiring  all  round,  too.  My  father  and 
mother  have  never  seen  or  heard  anything  of  her.  I  think 
you  must  have  made  a  mistake  that  night  in  Berkley 
Street." 

"  If  it  was  not  Liz,  it  was  her  ghost,"  said  Gladys,  quite 
gravely.  "  I  can  not  understand  it.  But,  come,  let  us  go 
down-stairs.  You  ought  to  offer  me  your  arm,  Walter.  I 
can  not  help  laughing  when  I  think  of  Mrs.  Fordyce ;  she 
would  be  so  horrified  were  she  to  see  me  now.  She  tries  so 
hard  to  make  me  quite  conventional,  and  she  is  n't  able  to 
do  it." 

"  She  may  be  right,  though,"  said  Walter;  and  though  he 
would  have  given  worlds  for  the  privilege,  he  dared  not  pre- 
sume to  take  Gladys  at  her  word  and  offer  her  his  arm.  But 
they  went  into  the  dining-room  side  by  side ;  and  at  the  table 
Gladys,  though  watching  keenly,  detected  very  little  of  the 
old  awkwardness,  none  at  all  of  that  blunt  rudeness  of  speech 
and  manner  which  had  often  vexed  her  sensitive  soul. 

For  the  first  time  for  many,  many  months,  Walter  per- 
mitted himself  to  be  at  ease  and  perfectly  natural  in  hia 
manner,  and  the  result  was  entirely  satisfactory.  Self- 


TOO  LATE!  235 

consciousness  is  fatal  to  comfort  always.  Gladys  wore  a 
black  gown  of  some  shimmering,  soft  material,  with  a  quaint 
frill  of  old  lace  falling  over  the  low  collar,  a  bunch  of  spring 
snowdrops  at  her  belt,  and  her  lovely  hair  bound  with  the 
black  velvet  band  which  none  could  wear  just  in  the  same 
way;  a  very  simple,  unostentatious  home  toilet,  but  she 
looked,  Walter  thought,  like  a  queen.  Possessed  of  a  won- 
derful tact,  Gladys  managed,  while  the  meal  progressed,  to 
confine  the  conversation  to  commonplace  topics,  so  that  the 
servant  who  attended  should  not  be  furnished  with  food  for 
remark.  Both  were  glad,  however,  to  return  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  their  talk  could  be  quite  unrestrained. 

"And  now  you  are  going  to  tell  me  everything  about  this 
wonderful  metamorphosis,"  she  said,  merrily.  "  Every  soli- 
tary thing.  When  did  it  dawn  upon  you  that  even  a  hand- 
some man  is  utterly  dependent  on  his  tailor?"  There  was 
at  once  rebuke  and  approval  conveyed  in  this  whimsical 
speech,  which  made  Walter's  face  slightly  flush. 

"It  dawned  upon  me  one  day,  looking  in  at  a  shop 
window,  where  I  could  see  myself,  that  I  was  a  most  dis- 
reputable-looking object,  quite  eligible  to  be  apprehended  as 
an  able-bodied  vagrant." 

"  How  delightful !  I  hope  the  shock  was  very  bad, 
because  you  deserved  it.  Now  that  you  have  come  back 
clothed  and  in  your  right  mind,  I  am  not  going  to  spare 
3rou,  Walter;  and  I  will  say  that,  after  my  last  visit  to  Col- 
quhoun  Street,  I  quite  lost  hope.  It  is  always  the  darkest 
hour  before  the  dawn,  somebody  has  said.'1 

"If  I'd  thought  you  cared,"  Walter  began,  but  stopped 
suddenly,  for  Gladys  turned  from  the  table,  where  she  was 
giving  her  attention  to  some  drooping  flowers,  and  her  look 
was  one  of  the  keenest  wonder  and  reproach. 

"Now  you  are  weak,  Walter,  trying  to  bring  your  de- 
linquencies home  to  me,"  she  said,  with  the  first  touch  of 
sharpness  he  had  ever  seen  in  her.  "It  has  been  your  own 
fault  entirely  all  along,  and  I  have  never  had  a  solitary  bit 


236  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

of  sympathy  for  you,  and  I  do  n't  know  either  what  you 
meant  by  going  on  in  any  such  manner." 

"I  didn't  understand  it  myself  then.  I  seemed  goaded 
on  always  to  be  a  perfect  brute  when  you  came.  But  I  be- 
lieve 1  understand  it  now,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if 
I  did  not." 

He  spoke  with  considerable  agitation,  which  Gladys 
affected  not  to  notice,  while  her  white  fingers  touched  the 
drooping  blossoms  tenderly,  as  if  S}Tmpathizing  with  them 
that  their  little  day  was  over. 

"Suppose  you  enlighten  me,  then,"  she  said,  gayly  still; 
then,  suddenly  seeing  his  face,  her  own  became  very  white. 

"  I  do  n't  dare,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "  It  is  too  much  pre- 
sumption ;  but  it  will,  perhaps,  make  you  understand  and 
feel  for  me  more  than  you  seem  to  do.  Do  n't  you  see, 
Gladys,  that  it  is  my  misery  to  care  for  you  as  happier  men 
care  for  the  woman  they  ask  to  marry  them." 

There  was  a  moment's  strained  silence ;  then  Gladys  spoke 
in  a  low,  sobbing  voice  : 

"  It  is  as  I  said,  Walter — too  late,  too  late !  I  have  prom- 
ised to  marry  another  man." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  WHA.T  MIGHT  HAVE 


LL  the  eagerness  died  out  of  Walter's  face,  and 
he  turned  away  immediately  as  if  to  leave  the 
room.  But  Gladys  prevented  him.  Her  face 
still  red  with  the  hot  flush  his  passionate  words 
had  called  up,  she  stood  before  him,  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  You  will  not  go  away  now,  Walter,  just  when  I  hope 
we  are  beginning  to  understand  each  other.  Do  sit  down  for 
a  little;  there  is  a  great  deal  left  to  us — we  can  still  be 
friends — yes,  a  great  deal." 

"  It  will  be  better  for  me  to  go  away,''  he  said,  not  bit- 
terly nor  resentfully,  but  with  a  quiet  manliness  which 
made  the  heart  of  Gladys  glow  with  pride  in  him,  though 
it  was  sore  with  another  feeling  she  did  not  quite  under- 
stand. 

"By  and  by,  but  not  yet,"  she  said,  coaxingly.  "Be- 
sides, you  can  not  get  a  train  just  now  even  if  you  were  at 
the  station  this  moment.  You  shall  be  driven  into  Mauch- 
line  in  time  for  the  nine-fifteen,  and  that  is  an  hour  hence. 
I  can  not  let  you  go  now,  Walter,  for  I  do  not  know  when  I 
shall  see  you  again." 

237 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

She  spoke  with  all  the  frank,  child-like  simplicity  of  the 
old  time,  and  he  turned  back  meekly,  and  took  his  seat 
again,  though  it  seemed  for  the  moment  as  if  all  brightness 
and  energy  had  gone  out  of  him.  Her  hands  trembled  very 
much  as  they  resumed  their  delicate  task  among  the  flowers, 
and  her  sweet  mouth  quivered  too,  though  she  tried  to 
speak  bravely  and  brightly  as  before. 

"  Do  tell  me,  Walter,  what  you  are  thinking  of  doing, 
now  that  your  business  has  become  so  prosperous.  Do  n't 
you  think  you  have  lived  quite  long  enough  in  that  dingy 
Colquhoun  Street?" 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  had  thoughts  of  leaving  it,  but  it  is  a  great 
thing  for  a  man  to  be  on  the  premises.  Your  uncle  would 
not  have  approved  of  my  leaving  the  place  so  soon.  Col- 
quhoun Sreet  was  good  enough  for  him  all  his  days,"  said 
Walter,  striving  to  speak  natural!}',  and  only  partially  suc- 
ceeding. 

"Ah  yes,  poor  man !  But  just  think  how  much  he  denied 
himself  to  give  me  all  this,"  she  said,  with  a  glance  round 
the  beautiful  room.  "  How  much  happier  he  and  I  would 
have  been  with  something  a  little  lower  than  this,  and  a  little 
higher  than  Colquhoun  Street !  It  often  makes  me  sad  to 
think  of  the  poverty  of  his  life  and  the  luxury  of  mine." 

"But  you  were  made  for  luxurious  living,"  was  Walter's 
quick  reply.  "  You  never  looked  at  home  in  the  old  place. 
This  suits  you  down  to  the  ground." 

"  Do  you  thjnk  so?" 

Gladys  gave  a  little  melancholy  smile. 

"Yet  so  contradictory  are  we  that  sometimes  I  am  not  at 
all  happy  nor  contented  here,  Walter." 

"You  ought  to  be  very  happy,"  he  replied,  a  trifle 
sharply.  "  You  have  everything  a  woman  needs  to  make 
her  happy." 

"  Perhaps  so,  and  yet — " 

She  paused,  and  hummed  a  little  scrap  of  song,  which 
WaTter  did  not  catch. 


"  W HA  T  MIGHT  HA  VE  BEEN."  239 

"  I  ain  becoming  quite  an  accomplished  violinist,  "Walter," 
she  said,  presently.  "  1  have  two  lessons  every  week ;  once 
Herr  Doller  comes  down,  and  once  I  go  up.  Would  you  like 
to  hear  me  play,  or  shall  we  talk?" 

"I  do  n't  know.  It  would  really  be  better  for  me  to  go 
away.  I  can  walk  to  the  station ;  the  walk  will  do  me 
good." 

"  I  will  not  allow  you  to  walk  nor  go  away,  Walter,  even 
if  you  are  as  cross  as  two  sticks.  And  I  must  say  I  feel 
rather  cross  myself." 

They  were  playing  with  edged  tools,  and  Gladys  was 
keenly  conscious  of  it.  Her  pulses  were  throbbing,  her  heart 
beating  as  it  had  never  beat  in  the  presence  of  the  man  to 
whom  she  had  plighted  her  troth  that  very  day.  A  very 
little  more,  and  she  must  have  given  way  to  hysterical  sob- 
bing. She  felt  so  overwrought,  and  yet  all  the  while  she 
kept  on  her  lips  that  gay  little  smile,  and  spoke  as  if  it  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  they  should  be  to- 
gether. But  when  Walter  remained  silent,  she  came  forward 
to  the  hearth  quickly,  and  forgetting  that  what  was  fitting 
in  the  old  days  was  not  permissible  in  the  new,  she  slipped 
on  one  knee  on  the  rug,  and  suddenly  laying  her  head  down 
on  his  knee,  began  to  cry. 

"  Gladys,  get  up ;  get  up,  or  I  can't  hold  my  tongue  1 
This  is  fearful!" 

"The  word  was  none  too  strong.  The  solitary  and  ab- 
sorbing passion  of  his  life,  a  pure  and  honest  love  for  that 
beautiful  girl,  surged  in  his  soul,  and  his  face  betrayed  the 
curb  he  was  putting  on  himself.  He  had  had  but  a  poor 
upbringing,  and  his  code  of  honor  had  been  self-taught,  but 
he  was  manly  enough  to  be  above  making  love  to  another 
man's  promised  wife. 

"Don't  make  it  any  harder  for  me!"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"I  know  you  are  sorry  for  me.  You  have  been  always  an 
angel  to  me,  even  when  I  least  deserved  it ;  but  this  is  not 
the  way  to  treat  me  to-night.  Let  me  go  away." 


240  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Let  me  be  selfish,  "Walter — just  this  one  night,"  she  said, 
in  a  low,  broken  voice.  "I  do  n't  know  why  I  am  crying,  for 
it  is  a  great  joy  to  me  that  you  are  here,  and  that  I  know, 
now  forever,  that  you  feel  as  you  used  to  do  before  this 
cruel  money  parted  us.  There  are  not  in  all  the  world  any 
friends  like  the  old.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  vexed  you." 

She  rose  up  and  met  his  glance,  which  was  one  of  infinite 
pity  and  indescribable  pathos.  The  greatest  sorrow,  the  keen- 
est disappointment  which  had  ever  come  to  Walter,  softened 
him  as  if  with  a  magic  touch,  and  revealed  to  her  his  heart, 
which  was  at  least  honest  and  true  in  every  throb. 

"  You  can  never  vex  me,  though  I  have  often  vexed  you. 
I  need  scarcely  say  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  with  the  one 
you  have  chosen.  You  deserve  the  very  best  in  the  world, 
and  even  the  best  is  not  good  enough  for  you.'  A  faint  smile 
shone  through  the  tears  on  the  girl's  face. 

""What  has  changed  you  so,  Walter?  It  is  as  if  a  whirl- 
wind had  swept  over  you." 

"  I  have  never  changed  in  that  particular,"  he  answered, 
half  gloomily.  "I  have  always  thought  the  same  of  you 
since  the  day  I  saw  you  first." 

"  O,  Walter,  do  you  remember  our  little  school  in  the 
evenings,  with  Uncle  Abel  dozing  in  the  chimney-corner, 
and  your  difficulties  over  the  arithmetic?  Very  oftem  you 
asked  me  questions  I  could  not  answer,  though  I  am  afraid 
I  was  not  honest  enough  always  to  say  I  did  not  know. 
Sometimes  I  gave  you  equivocal  answers,  did  n't  I  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  know ;  all  I  know  is  that  I  shall  never  forget 
those  days,  though  they  can  never  come  again,"  answered 
Walter.  "  I  am  learning  German  this  winter,  and  I  like  it 
very  much." 

"  How  delightful !  If  you  go  on  at  this  rate,  in  a  very 
short  time  I  shall  be  afraid  to  speak  to  you,  you  will  have 
grown  such  a  grand  and  clever  gentleman." 

Walter  gave  his  head  a  quick  shake,  which  made  the 
waved  mass  of  his  dark  hair  drop  further  on  his  brow.  A 


' '  WHA  T  MIGHT  HA  VE  BEEN. "  241 

fine  brow  it  was — square,  solid,  massive,  from  beneath  which 
looked  out  a  pair  of  clear  eyes,  which  had  never  feared  the  face 
of  man.  He  looked  older  than  his  years,  though  his  face 
was  bare,  except  on  the  upper  lip,  where  the  slight  mustache 
appeared  to  soften  somewhat  the  sterner  lines  of  the  mouth. 
Yes,  it  was  a  good,  true  face,  suggestive  of  power  and  possi- 
bility— the  face  of  an  honest  man.  Then  his  figure  had  at- 
tained its  full  height,  and,  being  clothed  in  well-made  gar- 
ments, looked  very  manly,  and  not  ungi'aceful.  Gladys 
admired  him  where  he  stood,  and  inwardly  contrasted  him 
with  a  certain  other  youth  who  devoted  half  his  attention  to 
his  personal  appearance  and  adornment.  Nor  did  AValter 
suffer  by  that  comparison. 

"  Must  you  go  away?"  she  asked,  wistfully,  not  conscious 
how  cruel  she  was  in  seeking  to  keep  him  there,  when  every 
moment  was  pointed  with  a  sorrowful  regret,  a  keen  anguish 
of  loss  which  he  could  scarcely  endure.  "And  when  will 
you  come  again  ?" 

"  O,  I  do  n't  know.  I  can't  come  often,  Gladys;  it  will 
be  better  not,  now." 

"  It  is  always  better  not,"  she  cried,  with  a  strange  petu- 
lance. "  There  is  always  something  in  the  way.  If  you 
knew  how  often  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  all  my  plans.  I 
always  think  nobody  quite  understands  us  like  those  whoni  we 
have  known  in  our  early  days,  because  then  there  can  never 
be  any  pretense  or  concealment.  All  is  open  as  the  day.  Is 
it  impossible  that  we  can  still  be  as  we  were?" 

"  Quite  impossible." 

His  answer  was  curt  and  cold,  and  he  was  on  his  feet 
again,  moving  towards  the  door. 

"  But  why?"  she  persisted,  with  all  the  unreason  of  a  will- 
ful woman.  "Maya  woman  not  have  a  friend,  though  he 
should  be  a  man  ?'' 

"  It  would  not  be  possible,  and  he  would  not  like  it,"  he 
said,  significantly,  and  Gladys  flushed  all  over,  and  flung 
up  her  head  with  a  gesture  of  defiance. 

16 


242  THE  G  VINE  A  STAMP. 

11  He  shall  not  dictate  to  me,"  she  said,  proudly.  "  "Well, 
if  yon  will  go,  you  will,  I  suppose.  But  you  shall  not  walk  ; 
on  that  point  I  am  determined."  She  rang  the  bell,  gave 
her  order  for  the  carriage,  and  looked  at  him,  whimsically, 
as  if  rejoicing  in  her  own  triumph.  "  I  am  afraid  I  am  be- 
coming quite  autocratic,  Walter,  so  many  people  have  to 
do  exactly  as  I  tell  them.  If  you  will  not  come,  will  you 
write  to  me  occasionally,  then  ?  It  would  be  delightful  to  get 
letters  from  you,  I  think." 

Never  was  man  so  subtly  flattered,  so  tempted.  Again 
he  bit  his  lip,  and  without  answering,  he  took  a  handsome 
frame  from  the  piano,  and  glanced  indifferently  at  the  photo- 
graph he  held. 

"  Is  this  the  man?"  he  asked  at  hazard,  and  when  Gladys 
nodded,  he  looked  at  it  again  with  keener  interest.  It  was 
the  same  picture  of  George  Fordyce  in  his  hunting-dress, 
which  Gladys  had  first  seen  in  the  drawing-room  at  Bellairs 
Crecent. 

"A  grand  gentleman,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  note  of  bitter- 
ness in  his  tone.  "  Well,  I  hope  you  will  be  happy." 

This  stiff,  conventional  remark  appeared  to  anger  Gladys 
somewhat,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  cast  a  re- 
proach at  him. 

"You  needn't  look  so  resigned,  Walter.  Just  cast  your 
memory  back,  and  think  of  some  of  the  kind  things  you 
have  said  to  me  when  we  have  met  since  I  left  Colquhoun 
Street.  If  you  think  I  can  forget  them,  you  are  mis- 
taken. They  will  always  rankle  in  my  mind,  and  it  is  only 
natural  that  I  should  feel  grateful,  if  nothing  else,  to  those 
who  are  a  little  kinder  and  more  attentive  to  me.  A  woman 
does  not  like  to  be  ignored." 

At  that  moment  a  servant  appeared  to  say  the  carriage 
waited,  and  Walter  held  out  his  hand  to  say  good-bye.  Hope 
was  forever  quenched  in  his  heart,  and  something  in  his  eyes 
went  to  the  heart  of  Gladys,  and  for  the  moment  she  could  not 
speak.  She  turned  silently,  motioned  him  to  follow  her  from 


WHAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN." 


243 


the  room,  and  then  stood  in  the  hall,  still  silently,  till  he 
put  on  his  great-coat.  Woman-like,  in  the  midst  of  her 
strange  agitation,  she  did  not  fail  to  notice  that  every  detail 
of  his  attire  was  in  keeping,  and  that  pleased  well  her  fas- 
tidious taste.  When  the  servant  at  last  opened  the  door, 
the  cool  wind  swept  in  and  ruffled  the  girl's  hair  upon  her 
white  brow. 

"Good-bye,  then.  You  will  write,"  she  said,  quickly, 
and  longing,  she  did  not  know  why,  to  order  the  servant 
to  withdraw. 

"  If  there  is  anything  to  write  about,  perhaps  1  will,"  he 
answered,  gripped  her  hand  like  a  vice,  and  dashed  out. 
Then  Miss  Graham,  quite  regardless  of  the  watchful  eyes 
upon  her,  went  out  to  the  outer  hall,  and  her  sweet  voice 
sounded  through  the  darkness,  "  Good-bye,  dear  Walter," 
and,  putting  her  white  fingers  to  her  lips,  she  threw  a  kiss 
after  him,  and  ran  into  the  house  all  trembling,  and  when 
she  reached  the  drawing-room  she  dropped  upon  her  knees 
by  a  couch  and  fell  to  weeping,  though  she  did  not  know 
why  she  wept. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  WA.NDE: 

T  was  half-past  ten  before  Walter  alighted  from 
the  train  at  St.  Enoch's  Station.  It  was  a  fine, 
dr}~  evening,  with  a  sufficient  touch  of  frost  in 
the  air  to  make  walking  pleasant.  As  he  made 
his  way  out  of  the  station,  and  went  among  the 
busy  crowd,  he  could  not  help  contrasting  that  hurrying  tide 
of  life  with  the  silence  and  the  solitude  he  had  left.  The  ex- 
perience of  the  last  few  houi-s  seemed  like  a  dream — only  he 
was  left  with  that  aching  at  the  heart,  that  strong  sense  of 
personal  loss,  which  even  a  brave  man  sometimes  finds  it  hard 
to  bear  manfully;  for  till  now  he  had  not  realized  how  near 
and  dear  a  part  of  his  life  was  the  sweet  girl  now  lost  to  him 
forever.  Although  it  had  often  pleased  him,  hi  the  bitterness 
of  his  mood,  to  say  that  an  inseparable  barrier  had  arisen 
between  them,  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  had  not  believed  it, 
but  cherished  the  secret  and  strong  hope  that  their  estrange- 
ment was  but  temporary,  and  that  in  the  end  the  old  days 
which  in  their  passing  had  often  been  shadowed,  but  which 
now  to  memory  looked  wholly  bright  and  beautiful,  would 
receive  their  crown.  And  now  his  dream  was  over,  and  again 
he  felt  himself  alone  in  the  world — more  terribly  alone  than 
244 


THE  WANDERER.  245 

lie  bad  yet  been.  He  was  not  a  vain  man,  though  he  believed 
in  his  own  ability,  or  looking  back  he  might  have  taken  no 
small  comfort  from  the  demeanor  of  Gladys  toward  him.  He 
had  not  been  untouched  by  it;  her  womanly  tenderness  had 
sunk  into  his  soul,  but  he  saw  in  it  only  the  natural  outcome 
of  a  kind  heart  which  felt  always  keenly  the  sorrow  of  others. 
He  believed  so  absolutely  in  her  singleness  of  heart,  her 
honesty  of  purpose,  that  he  accepted  her  decision  as  final. 
Since  she  had  plighted  her  troth  to  another,  it  was  all  over  so 
far  as  Walter  himself  was  concerned.  He  knew  so  little  of 
women  that  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  sometimes  they 
give  such  a  promise  hastily,  accepting  what  is  offered  from 
various  motives — very  often  because  what  they  most  desire 
is  withheld.  It  must  not  be  thought  that,  in  having  accepted 
George  Fordyce,  Gladys  was  intentionally  and  willfully  de- 
ceiving him.  His  impassioned  pleading  had  touched  her 
heart.  At  a  time  when  it  was  crying  out  for  something  to 
satisfy  its  need,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  she  had  mistaken 
an  awakened,  fleeting  impression  for  love,  and  passed  what 
was  now  in  her  eyes  an  irrevocable  word.  She  was  no 
coquette,  who  gives  a  promise  the  one  day  to  be  carelessly 
withdrawn  the  next.  George  Fordyce  had  been  fortunate  in 
gaining  the  promise  of  a  woman  whose  word  was  as  her 
bond.  But  there  are  circumstances  in  which  even  such  a 
bond  may  become  null  and  void ;  but  Gladys  did  not  dream 
of  the  tragedy  which  was  to  release  her  from  her  vow. 

Walter  felt  in  no  haste  to  go  home ;  nay,  the  very  thought 
of  it  was  intolerable  to  him.  He  saw  it  all  before  him  in 
sharp  contrast  to  another  home,  which  had  shown  him  how 
lovely  wealth  and  taste  can  make  human  surroundings,  and 
he  loathed  the  humble  shelter  of  the  old  place,  which  mem- 
ory hallowed  only  to  wound,  and  from  which  the  angel  of 
hope  had  now  flown. 

With  his  hand  in  one  pocket,  his  hat  drawn  a  little  over 
his  brow,  he  sauntered,  with  heavy  and  reluctant  step,  up 
Renfield  Street,  in  the  direction  of  Sauchiehall  Street.  He 


246  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

did  not  know  what  tempted  him  to  choose  the  opposite  di- 
rection from  his  home.  We  are  often  so  led,  apparently  aim- 
lessly, towards  what  may  change  the  very  current  of  our 
lives.  The  streets,  though  quieter  as  he  walked  further 
west,  were  by  no  means  deserted,  and  just  on  the  stroke  of 
eleven  the  people  from  the  theaters  and  public  houses  made 
the  tide  of  life  flow  again,  apparently  in  an  endless  stream. 
Quite  suddenly,  under  the  brilliant  light  known  by  the 
illumination  of  a  fashionable  tavern,  Walter  saw  standing 
on  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  talking  to  another  girl,  his 
sister  Liz.  He  could  not  believe  his  eyes  at  first ;  for  he  had 
never  credited  the  assertion  of  Gladys  that  she  had  really 
seen  her,  but  believed  it  had  been  a  mistake.  But  there  she 
was,  well  dressed,  stylish,  and  beautiful  exceedingly.  Even 
in  that  first  startled  look  he  was  struck  by  the  exquisite  out- 
line of  her  face,  the  absolute  purity  of  her  color,  except 
where  it  burned  a  brilliant  red  on  her  cheeks. 

He  stepped  back  into  a  doorway,  and  stood  silently  wait- 
ing till  they  should  separate,  or  move  away.  To  his  relief 
they  separated  at  last,  the  stranger  moving  towards  him — 
Liz  proceeding  westward.  He  followed  her,  keeping  a  few 
steps  behind  her,  watching  her  with  a  detective's  eye.  Once 
a  man  spoke  to  her;  but  she  gave  no  answer,  and  somehow 
that  to  Walter  was  a  relief.  He  felt  himself  growing  quite 
excited,  longing  to  overtake  and  speak  to  her,  yet  afraid.  At 
the  corner  of  Cambridge  Street,  she  stood  still,  apparently 
looking  for  a  car ;  then  Walter  stepped  before  her,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Liz,"  he  said,  and  in  spite  of  himself  his  voice  shook, 
"  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

Liz  gave  a  great  start,  and  her  pallor  vanished,  the  red 
mounting  high  to  her  brow. 

"  1 — I  do  n't  know.  It 's  you,  Wat !  Upon  my  word,  I 
didna  ken  ye.  Ye  are  sic  a  swell." 

"  I  heard  you  were  in  Glasgow,  but  I  did  n't  believe  it. 
Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 


THE  WANDERER.  247 

"  To  Maryhill ;  I'm  bidin'  there  the  noo,"  Liz  answered 
defiantly,  though  she  was  inwardly  trembling. 

"Maryhill!"  Walter  repeated,  and  his  eye,  sharp  with 
suspicion,  dwelt  searchingly  on  her  face. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?" 

"  That's  my  business,"  she  answered,  lightly.  "  I  needna 
ask  for  you.  I  see  you  are  flourishin'.  Hoo's  the  auld  folk  ? 
I  say,  here's  my  car.  Good-nicht." 

She  would  have  darted  from  him,  but  he  gripped  her  by 
the  arm. 

"  You  won't  go,  Liz,  till  I  know  where  and  how  you  are 
living.  I  have  the  right  to  ask.  Come  home  with  me." 

Liz  was  surprised,  arrested,  and  the  car  with  its  noisy 
jingle  swept  round  the  corner. 

"  Hame  wi'  you !"  she  repeated.  "  Maybe,  if  ye  keut,  ye 
wadna  ask  me,  wadna  speak  to  me,"  she  said,  with  a  melan- 
choly bitterness ;  and  then  her  cough,  more  hollow  and  more 
racking  than  of  yore,  prevented  further  speech. 

Walter  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  she,  feebly 
protesting,  allowed  him  to  lead  her  back  the  way  she  had 
come.  And  then,  as  they  walked,  a  strange,  constrained 
silence  fell  upon  them,  each  finding  it  difficult,  well-nigh  im- 
possible, to  bridge  the  gulf  of  these  sad  months. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  tell  me  anything  about  yourself, 
Liz?"  he  asked  at  length,  and  the  kindness  of  his  tone,  unex- 
pected as  it  was,  secretly  amazed  and  touched  her. 

"  Naething,"  she  answered,  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. "An'  though  I've  comeback  to  Glesca,  I'm  no  seekin' 
onything  frae  ony  o'ye — I  can  fend  for  mysel'." 

Walter  remained  silent  for  a  little.  The  subject  was  one 
of  extreme  delicacy,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  pursue  it. 
He  feared  that  all  was  not  with  his  sister  as  it  should  be; 
but  he  feared  the  result  of  further  questions. 

"What 's  the  guid  o'  me  gaun  hame  wi'  you  the  nicht? 
I  canna  bide  there,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  sharp,  discon- 
tented voice.  "An1  here  ye-ve  gar'd  me  miss  the  last  car." 


248  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Where  are  you  staving  in  Marvhill?" 

«/  •/          O  *> 

"  I  have  a  place,  me  an  anither  lassie,"  she  said  guard- 
edly. "  If  ye  are  flush,  ye  micht  gie  me  twa  shillin's  for  a 
cab.  I  'm  no  able  to  walk.". 

At  that  moment,  and  before  he  could  reply,  a  slim,  slight, 
girlish  figure  darted  across  the  street,  and  with  a  quick,  sob- 
bing breath  laid  two  hands  on  the  arm  of  Liz.  It  was  the 
little  seamstress,  who  had  haunted  the  streets  late  for  many 
nights,  scanning  the  faces  of  the  wanderers,  sustained  by  the 
might  of  the  love  which  was  the  only  passion  of  her  soul. 
At  sight  of  Teen,  Liz  Hepburn  betrayed  more  emotion  than 
in  meeting  with  her  brother. 

"  Eh,  I  Ve  found  ye  at  last!  I  said  I  was  bound  to  find 
ye  if  ye  were  in  Glesca,"  Teen  cried,  and  her  plain  face  was 
glorified  with  the  joy  of  the  meeting.  "  O,  Liz,  what  it 's 
been  to  me  no  kennin'  whaur  ye  were !  But  I  say,  hoo  do 
you  twa  happen  to  be  thegither?" 

"  I  've  twa  detectives  efter  me,  it  seems,"  said  Liz,  with  a 
touch  of  sullenness,  and  she  stood  still  on  the  edge  of  the 
pavement,  as  if  determined  not  to  go  another  step.  "  I  say 
do  you  twa  hunt  in  couples  ?" 

She  gave  a  little  mirthless  laugh,  and  her  eye  roamed 
restlessly  up  the  street,  as  if  contemplating  the  possibility  of 
escape. 

"  Come  on  name  wi'  me,  Liz,"  said  Teen,  coaxingly, 
and  she  slipped  her  hand  through  her  old  friend's  arm,  and 
looked  persuasively  into  her  face,  noting  with  the  keen- 
ness of  a  loving  interest  the  melancholy  change  upon  it. 
"  Ye  "re  no  weel,  an'  ye  '11  be  as  cozy  an'  quate  as  ye  like 
wi'  me." 

"  Has  your  ship  come  in?"  asked  Liz,  with  faint  sarcasm, 
but  still  hesitating,  uncomfortable  under  the  scrutiny  of  two 
pairs  of  questioning,  if  quite  friendly,  eyes. 

"Ay  has  it,"  replied  the  little  seamstress,  cheerfully. 
"  Should  n't  she  come  hame  wi'  me,  Walter?  She  wad  be  a' 
richt  there,  an'  you  can  come  an'  see  us  when  ye  like." 


THE  WANDERER.  249 

Walter  stood  in  silence  another  full  minute.  It  was  a 
strange  situation,  strained  to  the  utmost ;  but  his  faith  in  the 
little  seamstress  was  so  great  that  he  almost  reverenced  her. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  better  for  Liz  to  be  with  a  friend  of 
her  own  sex,  and  he  turned  to  her,  pleadingly. 

"  It 's  true  what  Teen  says — you  are  not  well.  Let  her 
take  A'OU  home.  I  '11  get  a  cab  and  go  with  you  to  the  dooi1, 
and  I  '11  come  and  see  you  to-morrow.  We  are  thankful  to 
have  found  you  again,  my — my  dear." 

The  last  words  he  uttered  with  difficulty,  for  such  ex- 
pressions were  not  common  on  his  lips.  But  some  impulse, 
born  of  a  vast  pity,  in  which  no  shadow  of  resentment 
mingled,  made  him  long  to  be  as  tender  with  her  as  he  knew 
how.  The  manner  of  her  reception  by  these  two  whom  she 
had  wronged  by  her  long  silence  aftected  Liz  deeply,  though 
she  made  no  sign. 

"  I  dinna  see  what  better  I  can  dae  if  ye  '11  no  stump  up 
for  the  cab  to  Maryhill,"  she  said,  ungraciously.  "A'  the 
same,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  ye.  Ye  had  nae  business 
watchin'  for  me,  ouy  o'  ye.  I  'm  my  ain  mistress,  an'  I'  m 
no  needin'  onything  aff  ye.1' 

The  little  seamstress  nodded  to  Walter,  and  he  hailed  a 
passing  cab.  All  the  time,  even  after  they  were  inside  the 
vehicle,  she  never  relaxed  her  hold  of  Liz;  but  they  accom- 
plished the  distance  to  Teen's  poor  little  home  in  complete 
silence.  Liz  felt  and  looked  like  a  prisoner.  Walter's  face 
wore  a  sad  and  downcast  expression ;  the  little  seamstress 
only  appeared  jubilant.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  they 
ascended  the  long  stair  to  the  little  garret,  and  Liz  had  to 
pause  many  times  in  the  ascent  to  recover  her  breath  and  to 
let  her  cough  have  vent.  She  grumbled  all  the  way  up ;  but 
when  Teen  broke  up  the  fire  and  lit  the  gas,  she  sank  into 
an  old  basket-chair  with  a  more  contented  expression  on 
her  face. 

"  Now,  ye  '11  hae  a  cup  o'  tea  in  a  crack,"  Teen  said, 
blithely.  "  I  've  gotten  a  new  tea-pot,  Liz ;  the  auld  yin 


250  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

positively  fell  to  bits.  Wull  ye  110  bide  an'  drink  a  cup, 
Walter?" 

"Not  to-night.  I  think  you  would  be  better  alone;  but 
1 '11  come  to-morrow  and  see  you,  Liz.  Good  night;  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  comfortable  here." 

"  O  ay,  I  dinna  doot.  I  say,  ye  are  a  toff,  an'  nae  mistake ; 
ye  micht  pass  for  a  lord,"  she  said  with  a  kind  of  scornful 
approbation.  u  Ye  're  risin'  in  the  scale  while  I  'm  gaun 
doon  ;  but  I  've  seen  something  o'  life  onyhoo,  an'  that 's  aye 
something." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  was  quite  white  and  un- 
soiled,  languidly,  and  bade  him  a  careless  good-night.  As 
Walter  went  out  of  the  kitchen,  she  was  surprised,  but  not 
more  so  than  he  was  himself,  that  two  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  He  dashed  them  away  quickly,  however,  and  when 
the  little  seamstress  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  he  was 
quite  calm  again. 

"  Ye  '11  take  care  of  her  and  not  let  her  away,  and  I  '11  be 
eternally  obliged  to  you.  1  trust  you  entirely,"  he  said, 
quickly. 

Teen  nodded  sagaciously. 

"  If  she  gangs  oot  o'  this  hoose,  she  tak's  me  wi'  her," 
she  said,  ,with  a  determined  curve  on  her  thin  lips. 

"And  whatever  you  need,  come  to  me,"  he  said,  with  his 
hand  in  his  pocket;  but  Teen  stopped  him  with  a  quick 
gesture. 

"I  have  ony  amount  o'  money  I  got  frae  Miss  Gladys." 

"  Keep  it  for  yourself.  You  must  spend  my  money  on 
Liz,  and  see  that  she  wants  for  nothing.  It  strikes  me  a 
doctor  is  the  first  thing  she  needs;  but  I'll  be  back  to- 
morrow. Good-night,  and  thank  you,  Teen.  You  are  a 
good  little  soul." 

"  Middlin',"  replied  Teen,  with  a  jerk,  and  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


HE  little  seamstress  was  in  a  quiver  of  happy 
excitement,  which  betrayed  itself  in  her  very  step 
as  she  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

Liz  lay  back  in  the  old  basket-chair,  with  her 
eyes  closed,  and  the  deadly  paleness  of  her  face 
was  very  striking. 

"  Ye  arena  weel,  Li/,''  she  said,  brusquely.  "  It  's  the 
stair;  ye  never  could  gang  up  a  stair,  I  mind,  withoot  bein' 
oot  o'  breath.  Xever  mind  :  the  kettle  's  bilin',  and  ye  11  hao 
your  tea  in  a  crack." 

She  busied  herself  about  the  table  with  nervous  hands, 
astonished  at  her  own  agitation,  which  did  not  appear  to 
have  communicated  itself  to  Liz,  her  demeanor  being  per- 
fectly lifeless  and  uninterested. 

Teen's  stock  of  household  napery  did  not  include  a  table- 
cloth ;  but,  desirous  of  doing  honor  to  her  guest,  she  spread 
a  clean  towel  on  the  little  table,  and  set  out  the  cups  with  a 
good  deal  of  cheerful  clatter. 

"  What  '11  ye  tak'  ?  I  have  eggs,  Liz  ;  real  country  eggs. 
I  brocht  them  up  frae  the  country  mysel',"  she  said,  thinking 

251 


252  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

to  rouse  the  lethargy  of  her  companion.  "  I  very  near  said 
I  saw  them  laid ;  ony  way,  I  saw  the  hens  that  laid  them. 
Ye  '11  hae  an  egg,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  if  ye  like.  I  havna  tasted  since  eleven  this  morn- 
ing, an'  then  it  was  only  a  dram,"  said  Liz,  languidly. 

Teen  stood  still  on  the  little  strip  of  rag-carpet  before  the 
fender,  and  regarded  her  friend  with  a  mingling  of  horror 
and  pity.  Whatever  had  been  the  tragedy  of  the  past  few 
months,  Liz  had  not  thereby  bettered  herself.  With  a  little 
choking  sob,  Teen  made  greater  haste  with  her  preparation, 
and  put  upon  the  table  a  very  tempting  little  meal,  chiefly 
composed  of  dainties  from  Bourhill,  a  very  substantial  basket 
having  been  sent  up  to  the  little  seamstress  by  order  of  Miss 
Graham.  Liz  threw  off  her  hat,  and,  drawing  her  chair  up 
to  the  table,  took  a  long  draught  from  the  tea-cup. 

"  Eh,  that's  guid,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 
"  Ye're  better  aff  than  me,  efter  a',  Teen,  an'  I  wish  I  was  in 
your  place." 

"  Ye'll  bide  here,  noo  ye  have  come,  onyhoo,"  said  the 
little  seamstress,  cheerily.  "My  ship  has  come  in;  but  we 
will  speak  upon  it  after.  I  say,  is  n't  Walter  lookin'  fine  ? 
He  wad  pass  for  a  lord,  jist  as  you  said." 

"His  looks  are  a'  richt — he  maun  be  makin'  money.  I 
say,  where  is  the  lassie  that  used  to  bide  there  ?  The  auld 
man's  deid,  isn't  he?"  „.• " 

"  Ay,"  answered  Teen.  "  Deid  lang  syne.  0,  she 's  turned 
into  a  graund  leddy,  livin'  on  an  estate  in  the  country.  He 
left  a  fortin.  See,  eat  up  that  ither  egg,  an'  there's  plenty 
mair  tea.  Look  at  that  cream ! — is  n't  it  splendid?" 

"  Fine,"  said  Liz ;  and  as  she  ate  and  enjoyed  the  gener- 
ous food  her  color  came  again,  and  she  looked  a  little  less 
ghastly  and  ill,  a  little  more  like  the  Liz  of  old.  Pen  can 
not  tell  the  joy  it  was  to  the  loyal  heart  of  the  little  seam- 
stress thus  to  minister  to  her  friend's  great  need,  though  in 
the  midst  of  her  deep  satisfaction  was  a  secret  dread,  a  vague 
and  vast  pity,  which  made  her  afraid  to  ask  a  single  question. 


A  FAITHFUL  FRIEXD.  253 

It  needed  no  very  keen  perception  to  gather  that  all  was  not 
well  with  the  unhappy  girl. 

"  Weel,  I  've  enjoyed  that,"  she  said,  pushing  back  from 
the  table  at  last.  "  I  've  eaten  ye  oot  o'  hoese  an'  hame ;  but 
as  your  ship's  come  in,  it'll  no  maitter.  Tell  me  a'  aboot  it." 

"  0,  there  no  much  to  tell,"  answered  Teen,  with  a  touch 
of  her  natural  reserve.  "I've  made  a  rich  frien',  that 's  a'." 

"A  man  ?"  asked  Liz,  with  interest. 

"No,  a  lady,"  replied  Teen,  rather  proudly.  "But  have 
ye  naething  to  tell  me  aboot  yersel'  ?" 

"O,  I  have  thoosands  to  tell,  if  I  like;  but  I'm  no  gaun 
to  tell  ye  a  thing,"  replied  Liz,  flatly;  but  her  candor  did 
not  even  make  Teen  wince.  She  was  used  to  it  in  the  old 
days,  and  expected  nothing  else. 

"  0,  jist  as  ye  like,"  she  answered,  serenely.  "But,  tell 
me,  did  ye  ever  gang  to  London  ?" 

•''JvTo,"  replied  Liz,  "I  never  went  to  London.  Did  you 
think  I  had?" 

"  Yes — we,  that 's  some  o's  thocht,  Walter  an'  me  ony way, 
that  ye  had  gane  to  the  theater  in  London  to  be  an  actress. 
It  was  gey  shabby,  I  thocht,  to  gang  the  way  ye  did  withoot 
sayin'  a  cheep  to  me,  after  a'  the  plans  we  had  made,"  said 
Teen,  with  equal  candor. 

"Maybe  it  was,"  said  Liz,  musingly;  and  with  her  mag- 
nificent eyes  fixed  on  the  fire,  she  relapsed  into  silence  again, 
and  Teen  saw  that  her  face  was  troubled.  Her  heart  yearned 
over  her  unspeakably,  and  she  longed  for  fuller  confidence, 
which  Liz,  however,  had  not  the  remotest  intention  of  giving. 

"Idinna  think,  judgin'  frae  appearances,  that  ye  have 
bettered  yoursel',"  said  the  little  seamstress,  slowly. 

"Ye  think  richt.  I  made  wan  mistake,  Teen,  the  biggest 
mistake  o'  a',1'  she  replied,  and  her  mouth  became  very  stern 
and  bitter,  and  a  dull  gleam  was  visible  in  her  eyes. 

Teen  waited  breathlessly  in  the  hope  that  Liz  would  still 
confide  in  her;  but  having  thus  delivered  herself,  she  again 
relapsed  into  silence. 


254  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  What  wey  are  ye  bidin'  at  Maryhill  ?"  she  asked,  after  a 
bit,  and  the  same  note  of  suspicion  which  had  been  in  Walter's 
questions  sounded  through  her  voice.  It  made  the  color 
rise  in  the  sharpty  outlined  cheek  of  Liz,  and  she  replied, 
angrily : 

"It 's  news  ye  're  wantin',  an'  you  're  no  gaun  to  get  it. 
Ye  brocht  me  here  again'  my  wull,  but  ye  '11  no  cross-question 
me.  I  can  gang  hame  even  yet.  It's  no  the  first  time  I  "ve 
gane  hame  in  the  mornin',  ony  way." 

Teen  wisely  accepted  the  inevitable. 

"  You  're  no  gaun  wan  fit  oot  o'  this  hoose  the  nicht,"  she 
replied,  calmly.  "Nor  the  morn  either,  unless  I  ken  whaur 
ye  are  gaun.  I  dinna  think,  Liz,  ye  hae  dune  very  weel  for 
yersel' this  while;  ye  'd  better  let  me  look  after  ye.  Twa 
heids  are  aye  better  than  ane." 

"  You  're  gaun  to  be  the  boss,  I  see,"  said  Liz,  with  a  faint 
smile,  and  in  her  utter  weariness  she  let  her  head  fall  back 
again,  and  closed  her  eyes.  "  If  I  wis  to  bide  here  the  morn, 
an'  Wat  comes,  he  'd  better  no  ask  me  ower  mony  questions, 
because  I  '11  no  stand  it  frae  neither  you  nor  him,  mind  that." 

"Nnebody'll  ask  you  questions,  my  dear,"  said  Teen; 
and,  lifting  back  the  table,  she  folded  down  the  bed,  and  shook 
up  the  old  wool  pillows,  wishing  for  her  friend's  sake  that 
they  were  made  of  down.  Then  she  knelt  down  on  the  old 
rag-carpet  and  began  to  unlace  Liz's  boots,  glancing  ever  and 
anon  with  sad  eyes  up  into  the  white  face  with  its  haggard 
mouth  and  dark  closed  e}res. 

"  Ye  are  a  guid  sort,  Teen,  upon  my  word,"  was  all  the 
thanks  she  got.  "  I  believe  I  will  gang  to  my  bed,  if  ye  '11 
let  me ;  maybe  if  ye  kent  a'  ye  wad  turn  me  oot  to  the 
street." 

"  No  me.  If  the  a's  waur  than  I  imagine,  it 's  gey  bad," 
replied  the  little  seamstress.  "O,  Liz,  I'm  that  glad  to  see 
you,  I  canna  dae  enough." 

"  I  'vo  been  twice  up  your  stair,  Teen  ;  once  I  knockit  at 
the  door,  an'  then  flew  down  afore  you  could  open'd.  Ye 


A  FAITHFUL  FRIEXD.  255 

think  ye  've  a  hard  time  o't,  but  there  's  waur  things  than 
sewin'  jackets  at  elevenpence  the  dizzen." 

Teen's  hands  were  very  gentle  as  she  assisted  her  friend 
off  with  her  gown,  which  was  a  very  handsome  affair,  all 
velvet  and  silk,  and  gilt  trimmings  which  dazzled  the  eye. 

Thus  partially  undressed,  Liz  threw  herself  without 
another  word  on  the  bed,  and  in  two  minutes  was  asleep. 
Then  softly  laying  another  bit  of  coal  on  the  fire,  Teen 
lifted  the  table  back  to  the  hearth,  got  out  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  and  set  herself  to  a  most  unusual  task,  the  composi- 
tion and  writing  of  a  letter.  I  should  be  afraid  to  say  how 
long  it  took  her  to  perform  this  great  task,  nor  how  very 
poor  an  accomplishment  it  was  in  the  end,  but  it  served  its 
purpose,  which  was  to  acquaint  Gladys  with  the  return  of 
Liz.  Afraid  to  disturb  the  sleeping  girl,  Teen  softly  re- 
moved a  pillow  from  the  bed,  and  placing  it  on  the  floor  be- 
fore the  fire,  laid  herself  down  with  an  old  plaid  over  her, 
though  sleep  was  far  from  her  eyes. 

A  great  disappointment  had  come  to  the  little  seamstress; 
for  though  she  had  long  since  given  up  all  hope  of  welcom- 
ing back  Liz  in  the  guise  of  a  great  lady  who  had  risen  to 
eminence  by  dint  of  her  own  honest  striving,  she  only  knew 
to-night,  when  the  last  vestige  of  her  hope  had  been  wrested 
from  her,  how  absolute  and  unassailable  had  been  her  faith 
in  her  friend's  honor.  And  now  she  knew  intuitively  the 
very  worst.  It  needed  no  sad  story  from  Liz  to  convince 
the  little  seamstress  that  she  had  tried  the  way  of  transgress- 
ors, and  found  it  hard.  Mingling  with  her  intense  sorrow 
over  Liz  was  another,  and,  if  possible,  a  more  painful  fear — 
lest  this  deviation  from  the  paths  of  rectitude  might  be 
fraught  with  painful  consequences  to  the  gentle  girl  whom 
Teen  had  learned  to  love  with  a  love  which  had  in  it  the  ele- 
ments of  worship. 

These  melancholy  forebodings  banished  sleep  from  the 
eyes  of  the  little  seamstress,  and  early  in  the  morning  she 
rose,  sore;  stiff,  and  unrefreshed  from  her  hard  couch,  and 


256  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

began  to  move  about  the  house  again,  setting  it  to  rights 
for  Liz's  awakening.  She,  however,  slept  on,  the  heavy 
sleep  of  complete  exhaustion,  and  finally  Teen,  not  thinking 
it  wise  to  disturb  her,  laid  herself  down  on  the  front  of  the 
bed,  to  rest  her  tired  boneg.  She,  too  fell  asleep,  and  it  was 
the  sunshine  upon  her  face  which  awakened  her  just  as  the 
church -bells  began  to  ring. 

With  an  exclamation  which  awoke  her  companion,  she 
leaped  up,  and  ran  to  break  up  the  fire,  which  was  smolder- 
ing in  the  grate. 

"  Mercy  me,  it 's  eleven  o'clock ;  but  it 's  Sunday  mornin', 
so  it  doesna  matter,"  she  said,  almost  blithely;  for  in  the 
morning  everything  seems  brighter,  and  even  hard  places 
less  hard.  "  My  certy,  Liz,  ye've  sleepit  weel.  Hae  ye  ever 
wakened." 

"  Never,  I  Ve  no  haen  a  sleep  like  that  for  I  canna  tell  ye 
hoo  lang,"  said  Liz,  quite  gratefully,  for  she  felt  wonderfully 
rested  and  refreshed.  In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time 
the  little  seamstress  had  the  kettle  singing  on  the  cheery  hob, 
and  toasted  the  bread  while  Liz  was  washing  her  face  and 
brushing  her  red  locks  at  the  little  looking-glass  hanging  at 
the  window.  They  were  sitting  at  their  cozy  breakfast,  talk- 
ing of  commonplace  things,  when  Walter's  double  knock  came 
to  the  door.  Teen  ran  to  admit  him,  and  with  a  series  of 
nods,  indicated  to  him  that  his  sister  was  all  right  within. 

There  was  a  strained  awkwardness  in  their  meeting.  Liz 
felt  and  resented  the  questioning  scrutiny  of  his  eyes,  and 
had  not  Teen  thrown  herself  into  the  breech  it  would  have 
been  a  strange  interview.  As  it  was,  she  showed  herself  to 
be  a  person  of  the  finest  and  most  delicate  tact,  and  more 
than  once  Walter  found  himself  looking  at  her  with  a  kind 
of  grateful  admiration,  and  thinking  what  an  odd  mistake  he 
had  made  in  his  estimate  of  her  character. 

When  the  breakfast  was  over,  Teen,  under  pretense  of 
going  to  inquire  for  a  sick  neighbor,  took  herself  off,  and 
left  the  brother  and  sister  alone.  It  had  to  come  sooner  or 


A  FAITHFUL  FRIEND.  257 

later,  she  knew,  and  she  hoped  that  Liz,  in  her  softer  mood, 
would  at  least  meet  Walter  half-way.  When  the  door  was 
closed  upon  the  two,  there  was  a  moment's  silence,  which 
Walter  broke  quite  abruptly;  it  was  not  his  nature  to  beat 
about  the  bush. 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  me  this  morning  where  you  have 
been  all  this  time?" 

"  No,"  she  answered  calmly,  "  I  'm  not." 

This  was  unpromising,  but  Walter  tried  not  to  notice  her 
defiant  manner  and  tone. 

«  Very  well.  L  won't  ask  you,  since  you  do  n't  want  to 
tell.  You  have  n't  been  prospering,  anyhow,  any  one  can 
see  that ;  but  we  '11  let  bygones  be  bygones.  I  'm  in  a  good 
way  of  doing  now,  Liz,  and  if  you  like  to  come  along  to 
Colquhoun  Street  and  try  your  hand  at  housekeeping,  I  'm 
ready." 

Liz  was  profoundly  amazed;  but  not  a  change  passed 
over  her  face. 

"  Ye  are  no  feared  ?"  was  her  only  comment,  delivered  at 
last  in  a  perfectly  passionless  voice. 

"Feared!  what  for?"  he  asked,  trying  to  speak  pleas- 
antly. "  You  're  my  sister,  and  I  need  a  housekeeper.  I  'm 
thinking  of  leaving  Colquhoun  Street,  and  taking  a  wee 
house  somewhere  in  the  suburbs.  We  can  talk  it  over  when 
you  come." 

Then  Liz  sat  up  and  fixed  her  large,  indescribable  eyes 
full  in  her  brother's  face. 

"An'  will  ye  tak'  me  withoot  askin'  a  single  question, 
Wat?" 

"  I  can't  do  anything  else,"  he  answered,  good-humoredly. 

"But  I've  lost  my  character,"  she  said,  then,  in  a  per- 
fectly matter-of-fact  voice.  Although  he  was  in  a  manner 
prepared  for  it,  this  calm  announcement  made  him  wince. 

"You  can  redeem  it  again,"  he  said,  in  a  slightly  un- 
steady voice.  "  I  do  n't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  you,  Liz. 
You  never  had  a  chance." 

17 


258 


THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 


Lix^  leaned  back  in  her  chair  again,  and  closed  her  eyes. 
She  was,  to  outward  appearance,  indifferent  and  calm;  but 
her  breast  once  or  twice  tumultuously  heaved,  and  her 
brows  were  knit  as  if  she  suffered  either  physical  or  mental 
pain. 

"You  '11  come,  won't  you,  Liz,  either  to-day  or  to-mor- 
row? You  know  the  place,"  he  said,  rather  anxiously. 

"No,"  she  answered,  quietly;  "  I  'm  no  comin'." 

"Why?  I  'm  sure  I  will  never  cast  up  anything.  I  'm 
in  solemn  earnest,  Liz.  I  '11  do  the  best  I  can  for  you,  an' 
nobody  shall  cast  a  stone  at  you  when  I  am  by.  I  've  lived 
to  myself  too  long.  Come  and  help  me  to  be  less  selfish." 

The  girl's  breast  again  tumultuously  heaved,  and  one 
deep,  bursting  sob  forced  itself  from  her  lips.  But  all  her 
answer  was  to  shake  her  head  wearily  and  answer — 

"No." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

WHAT  WILL  SHE  Do? 

|  ALT EH  looked  at  her  perplexedly,  not  knowing 
what  to  say. 

"  Why  will  ye  not  come  ?"  he  asked,  at  length, 
quite  gently. 

'•I've  disgraced  ye  enough,"  she  answered, 
a  trifle  sharply.  ''  Ye  dinna  ken  what  ye  are  daein',  my 
man,  askin'  me  to  come  an'  bide  wi'  }rou.  I  've  niair  respect 
for  ye  than  ye  hae  for  yersel'.  I  'm  much  obleeged,  a'  the 
same,  but  I  'm  no  comin'.'' 

He  perceived  that  the  highest  motive  prompted  her,  and 
it  convinced  him.  as  nothing  else  could  have  done,  that  if 
she  had  erred  she  had  also  repented  sincerely. 

'•  What  will  you  do.  then?''  he  asked.     "Will  you,"    he 
added,  hesitatingly — '•  Will  you  go  to  the  old  folk?" 
She  gave  a  short,  hard  laugh. 

"No  me.  There  wad  be  plenty  castin'  up  there,  if  ye 
like.  No;  I  hae  nae  desire  to  see  them  again  this  side  the 
grave." 

It  was  a  harsh  speech  ;  but,  knowing  what  the  past  had 
been,  Walter  could  not  blame  her.  As  he  stood  looking 
through  the  little  window,  beyond  the  forest  of  roofs,  to 

259 


260  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

where  the  sun  lay  warm  and  bright  on  far-off  country  slopes, 
he  thought  of  the  sore  bitterness  of  life.  He  might  well  be 
at  war  with  fate;  it  had  not  given  him  much  of  the  good 
which  makes  life  worth  living.  It  was  all  very  well  for 
Gladys  Graham,  the  spoiled  child  of  a  happy  fortune,  to 
reprove  him  for  railing  at  the  cruelty  of  circumstances;  her 
suffering,  even  when  the  days  were  darkest  with  her,  had 
been  of  a  gentler  and  less  hopeless  kind. 

"  Liz,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  sister  again,  after  what  had 
seemed  to  her  an  interminable  silence,  "  if  you  won't  come 
to  me,  promise  me  you'll  stay  here.  I  have  not  asked  any 
questions  about  your  way  of  doing,  but  I  can  guess  at  it. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  give  it  all  up  and  stay  here." 

"Sponging  off  Teen,  like?"  she  asked,  sarcastically. 

"No,  no;  I  have  plenty  of  money.  You  shall  want  for 
nothing,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  irritation.  "  She 's  a 
good  little  soul,  Teen,  and  I  won't  forget  her.  I'm  sure  you 
and  she  could  be  quite  comfortable  here ;  you  have  always 
been  good  friends." 

"Yes,"  answered  Liz,  indifferently,  "  that 's  true." 

"  Will  you  promise,  then,"  he  asked,  anxiously,  "  to  stay 
here  in  the  meantime?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  '11  promise  naething,  because, 
if  it  comes  up  my  back,  I  '11  rise  and  gang  oot  this  very 
day." 

Walter's  face  flushed  a  little  with  anger.  She  was  very 
perverse,  and  would  give  him  no  satisfaction  whatever.  He 
was  at  a  disadvantage,  because  he  really  knew  very  little  of 
her  nature,  which  was  as  deep  and  as  keen  of  feeling  as  his 
own. 

"  Then  am  I  to  go  away  and  live  in  torture  about  you, 
Liz?  I  Ve  a  good  mind  to  shut  you  up  where  you  can't  get 
out." 

"  They  wud  be  queer  bolts  and  bars  that  kept  me  in," 
she  said,  with  a  slight  smile.  "  Ye  are  very  guid  to  tak'  sae 
muckle  thocht  aboot  me,  and  if  it  '11  relieve  your  mind,  ye  can 


WHAT  WILL  SHE  DO?  261 

believe  that  what  ever  I  'm  aboot,  it 's  honest  wark,  and  that 
if  I  need  anything  I  '11  come  to  you." 

"You  mean  that,  Liz?" 

"Yes,  I  mean  it;  and  if  I  div  say  a  thing,  I  dinna  gang 
back  frae  it,"  she  said,  and  again  his  mind  was  relieved.  It 
was  but  natural  that  he  should  feel  an  absorbing  desire  to 
know  exactly  what  her  experience  had  been  during  the  time 
she  had  been  away  from  them ;  but  since  she  seemed  deter- 
mined to  keep  silence  regarding  it,  he  could  only  keep  si- 
lence too.  Presently  Teen  returned,  and  there  was  a  furtive 
look  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes  as  she  regarded  them,  inly  won- 
dering what  had  transpired  in  her  absence. 

"  Liz  will  bide  with  you  in  the  meantime,"  said  Walter, 
affecting  a  cheerfulness  he  did  not  feel.  "  I  have  been  asking 
her  to  come  and  be  my  housekeeper,  but  she  won't  promise 
in  the  meantime." 

"  O,  she  '11  be  fine  here  the  noo,"  answered  the  little  seam- 
stress, witli  a  significance  which  did  not  convey  anything  to 
them,  though  it  meant  something  to  her.  She  was  thinking 
as  she  spoke  of  the  probable  result  of  the  letter  she  had  just 
carried  to  the  post,  and  which  would  be  delivered  at  Bour- 
hill  in  the  morning.  She  was  not  mistaken  in  her  calcula- 
tions regarding  it,  for  next  morning,  between  eleven  and 
twelve,  when  the  two  were  sitting  by  the  fire,  keeping  up  a 
rather  disjointed  conversation,  during  which  Liz  had  exhib- 
ited distinct  signs  of  restlessness,  a  light,  quick  knock  came 
to  the  door. 

"That's  her!"  cried  Teen,  springing  up,  her  sallow  face 
all  aglow.  "  I  kent  she  wad  come ;  yes,  it's  just  her." 

Liz  sat  up,  her  whole  demeanor  defiant,  her  face  wearing 
its  most  ungracious  look. 

She  had  not  the  remotest  idea  who  was  meant  by  "her," 
and  it  is  certain  that  had  there  been  any  other  means  of  exit 
than  the  door  in  the  building,  she  would  have  taken  herself 
off  there  and  then.  What  was  her  astonishment  to  behold 
presently  a  lissom,  graceful  figure  and  a  sweet  face  which 


262  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

seemed  familiar,  though  she  could  not  for  the  moment  be- 
lieve that  they  really  pertained  to  Gladys  Graham.  And  the 
face  wore  such  a  lovely  look  of  gladness  and  wonder  and 
sorrow  all  mingled,  that  Liz  was  struck  dumb. 

"  O,  Lizzie,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  How  could  you 
stay  away  so  long,  when  you  must  have  known  we  were  all 
so  anxious  about  you?  But  we  will  forgive  you  quite,  now 
that  you  have  come  back." 

She  took  the  unwilling  hand  of  Walter's  sister  in  her 
firm,  warm  clasp,  and  bending  forward  kissed  her,  as  she 
had  done  once  before,  on  the  brow.  Then  the  face  of  Liz 
became  a  dusky  red,  and  she  started  back,  saying  hoarsely  : 

"Don't  never  dae  that  again.  O,  my  God,  if  ye  kent! 
ye  wadna  let  your  eyes  licht  on  me,  far  less  that." 

"  I  know  that  we  are  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  and  that 
you  look  very  ill,  dear  Lizzie,"  said  Gladys,  her  voice  trem- 
ulous with  her  deep  compassion.  "And  I  have  come  to  take 
you  away  to  Bourhill.  Here  is  somebody  quite  ready,  I 
think  to  go." 

She  turned  with  a  smile  to  the  little  seamstress,  whose 
face  still  wore  that  intense  glorified  look. 

"  Bourhill !"  repeated  Liz.     "  Where 's  that  ?" 

"  That 's  my  home  now,"  said  Gladys,  gleefully.  "  See 
what  you  have  missed  being  away  so  long.  Has  Teen  not 
told  you  of  all  its  glories?  I  thought  she  was  so  enthu- 
siastic over  it,  she  could  not  hold  her  tongue.  Never  mind, 
you  shall  soon  see  it  for  yourself." 

"  I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  'm  no  comin'," 
said  Liz  with  the  same  firmness  which  had  set  aside  Walter's 
scheme  concerning  her. 

"  Why  not  ?  Nobody  ever  refuses  me  anything,"  Gladys 
said. 

"  It  wad  be  a  sin  for  me  to  gang,"  replied  Liz,  quietly. 
"  I'm  not  fit  to  speak  to  the  like  o'  you.  At  least,  that 's 
what  them  you  belang  to  wad  say." 

"  I've  nobody  belonging  to  me  to  dictate  to  me,  Liz,  and 


WHAT  WILL  SHE  DO?  263 

I  am  not  afraid  to  trust  you.  You  may  have  sinned — I  do  n't 
know — but  you  have  had  many  temptations.  I  want  to  show 
you  a  happier  life.  Tell  her,  Teen,  how  lovely  it  is  at  deai 
Bourhill." 

"  I  couldna,"  answered  Teen,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  It 's 
like  heaven,  Liz." 

"  Then  it  '11  be  owre  guid  for  me,"  said  Liz,  wearily. 
"An*  I'll  better  bide  whaur  I  am.  But,  I  say,  ye  are  queerer 
than  ever ;  an'  I  thocht  ye  gey  queer  last  time  I  saw  ye." 

"  Never  mind  what  you  think  of  me.  Say  you  will  come 
with  me  to-day.  I  came  for  the  very  purpose  of  taking 
you  away,"  said  Gladys,  cheerfully.  "  Do  you  remember 
that  absurd  story  about  Lord  Bellew's  Bride  you  were  read- 
ing the  first  time  I  saw  you?  My  own  fortune  is  very 
nearly  as  wonderful  as  that  of  Lord  Bellew's  Bride."  Liz 
faintly  smiled. 

"  Eh,  sic  lees  there  is  in  papers.  It  souldna  be  printed. 
Things  like  yon  never  happen  in  real  life — never,  never  I" 
She  spoke  with  passionate  emphasis,  which  indicated  that  she 
keenly  felt  what  she  said.  "  Ye  '11  be  gaun  to  get  marriet 
next,"  she  added,  looking  at  Gladys,  who  smiled  and  nodded, 
with  slightly  heightened  color. 

"  Well,  what  is  to  be  done?  Are  you  going  down  with 
me  to-day?"  she  asked,  looking  from  one  to  another,  and 
tapping  her  dainty  boot  a  trifle  impatiently  on  the  floor. 

"  I  can  na  come  the  day,  for  my  claes  are  a'  at  Maryhill," 
said  Liz. 

"  But  I'll  gang  for  them,  Liz,"  put  in  the  little  seamstress, 
quickly.  "  They  can  be  easy  got  frae  Maryhill  afore  uicht. 
It's  only  twelve  o'clock  the  noo." 

"There  need  not  be  any  such  hurry.  I  think  I  shall  stay 
in  town  all  night,"  said  Gladys,  "and  you  can  arrange  it 
together,  either  to  go  with  me  or  alone.  Teen  can  manage  it ; 
she  k'nows  all  about  the  trains,  having  been  there  before.  I 
shall  be  sure  to  be  home  not  later  than  to-morrow  night; 
and  if  anything  should  prevent  me  getting  down  then,  there 


264  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

is  Miss  Peck,  Teen,  who,  you  know,  will  make  you  very 
welcome." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Teen.  "  If  ye  only  kent  what 
like  a  place  it  is,  Liz,  ye  wad  be  jumpin'." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  dinna  ken  what  way  ye  want  me  doon  there," 
said  Liz,  relapsing  into  her  weary,  indifferent  manner.  "  I 
canna  understand  it." 

"Can't  you?"  asked  Gladys,  merrily.  "Well,  I  want 
you,  that 's  all.  I  want  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
grow  strong  and  well  again.  Nobody  shall  meddle  with  you. 
You  shall  do  just  as  you  like,  and  you  two  will  be  compan- 
ions to  each  other." 

Teen  looked  reproachfully  at  her  friend,  wondering  to  see 
her  so  undemonstrative,  never  even  uttering  a  single  word  of 
thanks  for  the  kindness  so  freely  offered.  She  shook  hands 
with  Gladys  in  silence,  and  allowed  her  to  depart  without 
further  remark. 

"You'll  make  sure  that  she  comes  down,  Teen,"  said 
Gladys,  when  they  were  without  the  door.  "  Poor  thing ! 
she  looks  dreadfully  ill  and  unhappy.  Where  do  you  think 
she  has  been  ?" 

Teen  mournfully  shook  her  head,  and  her  large  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"  I  '11  no  let  her  away,"  she  answered,  firmly.  "  If  she  '11 
no  come  doon  to  Bourhill,  I  '11  see  that  she  disna  gang  ony- 
where  else  withoot  me." 

"  You  are  a  faithful  friend,"  said  Gladys,  quickly.  "  Has 
she — has  she  seen  her  brother?" 

Teen  wondered  somewhat  at  the  hesitation  with  which 
the  question  was  asked. 

"Ay,  he  was  here  yesterday.' ' 

"And  what  did  he  say,  Teen  ?  O,  I  hope  he  was  very 
gentle  with  her." 

"I  wasna  in  a'  the  time,  but  I'm  sure  that  kinder  he 
couldna  have  been.  He  wanted  her  to  gang  to  -Colquhoun 
Street  an'  bide,  but  she  wadna." 


WHAT  WILL  SHE  DOf  265 

"  Well,  I  hope  she  will  come  to  Bourhill,  and  I  think  she 
will.  Good-bye." 

"Weel,  hae  ye  gotten  me  weel  discussed?"  queried  Liz, 
sarcastically,  when  the  little  seamstress  returned  to  the 
kitchen.  "  I  canna  understand  that  lassie  by  onybody." 

"Nor  I  a'thegither,  but  1  ken  she's  guid,"  she  answered, 
simply.  "  Ye  will  gang  to  Bourhill,  Liz." 

"  Maybe.  I  '11  see.  I  say,  do  you  ken  wha  she  's  gaun  to 
mairry  ?" 

"  I  have  an  inklin',"  replied  Teen,  and  said  no  more, 
though  her  face  became  yet  more  gravely  troubled. 

"  Liz,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "  will  you  tell  me  wan  thing 
afore  we  gang  down  to  Bourhill,  if  we  gang." 

"What  is 't." 

"  Had  Fordyce  anything  to  dae  wi'  }^ou  gaun  awa'  when 
you  did?" 

"Mind  your  ain  business,"  replied  Liz,  with  the  utmost 
calmness,  not  even  changing  color.  "  I  'm  no  gaun  to  tell  ye 
a  single  thing.  My  concerns  are  my  ain  ;  an'  if  ye  're  no 
pleased,  weel,  I  can  shift." 

The  girl's  matter-of-fact,  unruffled  demeanor  somewhat 
allayed  Teen's  burning  anxiety ;  and  afraid  to  try  Liz  too  far 
lest  she  should  insist  on  leaving  her,  she  held  her  peace. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A.    REVELATION. 

OUR  Aunt  Isabel  was  here  this  afternoon, 
George,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce  to  her  son,  when  he 
came  home  from  the  mill  that  evening.  She 
came  over  to  tell  me  Gladys  is  in  town.  I  said 
I  thought  you  did  not  expect  her.'' 

"No,  I  did  not,"  George  replied.  "  What 's  she  up  for — 
anything  new?" 

"  0,  one  of  her  fads.  Something  about  one  of  these  girls 
from  the  slums.  Your  aunt  seemed  to  be  rather  distressed. 
She  thinks  Gladys  is  going  quite  too  far,  and  she  really  took 
the  opportunity,  when  the  girls  had  gone  to  a  studio-tea,  to 
come  over  to  consult  me.  We  both  think  you  are  quite  en- 
titled to  interfere." 

George  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  all  very  easy  for  you  to  say  that ;  but  I  tell  you 
Gladys  won't  stand  that  sort  of  thing." 

"But,  my  dear,  she  must  be  made  to  stand  it.  I  must 
say  her  conduct  is  most  unwomanly.  If  she  is  to  be  your 
wife  she  must  be  taught  that  you  are  to  be  considered 
in  some  ways.  You  must  be  very  firm  with  her,  George ;  it 
will  save  no  end  of  trouble  afterwards." 
266 


A  REVELATION.  267 

Mrs.  George  Fordyce  was  a  large,  stout  person  of  impos- 
ing presence,  and  she  delivered  herself  of  this  admirable  senti- 
ment most  impressively.  But  though  her  son  quite  agreed 
with  her,  and  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  the  girl  of  his 
choice  were  a  little  less  erratic  and  self-willed,  he  was  wise 
enough  to  know  that  any  attempt  at  coercion  would  be  the 
very  last  thing  to  make  her  amenable  to  reason. 

"What  girl  is  it  now?"  he  asked,  with  affected  careless- 
ness, but  Turtive  anxiety.  "  The  same  one  who  has  been 
staying  at  Bourhill?" 

"  No ;  something  far  worse — a  dreadful  low  creature  who 
has  been  missing  for  some  time.  If  Gladys  were  not  as  in- 
nocent as  a  baby,  she  would  know  that  she  is  a  creature 
not  fit  to  be  spoken  to.  Really,  George,  that  Miss  Peck  is 
utterly  useless  as  a  chaperon.  I  wish  we  knew  what  to  do. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  exasperating  and  delicate  affairs  pos- 
sible." 

"  That  girl !"  repeated  George,  so  blankly  that  his  mother 
looked  at  him  in  sharp  amazement.  "Heavens! — then  it's 
all  up,  mother !" 

"All  upJ     What  on  earth  do  you  mean?'' 

"What  I  say.  Is  it  a  girl  called  Hepburn?"  he  asked, 
half-desperately,  afraid  to  tell  his  mother,  and  yet  feeling 
that  she,  and  she  alone,  might  help  him. 

"  I  believe  so.  Yes,  Hepburn  was  certainly  the  name 
your  aunt  mentioned.  Well,  what  then?" 

"Simply  that  if  Gladys  has  got  in  tow  with  this  girl, 
and  takes  her  down  to  Bourhill,  I  'm  ruined." 

"How?" 

There  was  eager  inquiry,  anguish  even,  in  the  question. 
Mrs.  Fordyce  was  a  vain  and  silly  woman,  but  she  had  a 
mother's  feelings,  and  suffered,  as  every  mother  must,  over 
her  son's  dishonor. 

"  This  girl  was  one  of  our  hands,  and — and — well,  you 
understand,  she  had  a  pretty  face,  and  I  was  foolish  about 
her.  1  never  meant  anything  serious ;  but,  you  see,  if  Gladys 


268  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

gets  to  know  about  it,  she  is  so  absurdly  Quixotic,  she  is 
quite  fit  enough  not  to  speak  to  me  again." 

"  You  were  foolish  about  her,"  repeated  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
slowly,  and  her  comely  face  became  rather  pale  as  she 
keenly  eyed  her  son's  troubled  face.  "  Does  that  mean  that 
you  were  responsible  for  her  disappearance?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  was  in  the  first  instance,"  he  said, 
frankly.  "  Of  course,  I  was  a  fool  for  myself;  but  a  man  is  n't 
always  responsible,  but —  " 

"  O,  hold  your  tongue,  George  Fordyce  1"  said  his  mother, 
her  voice  sharp  with  her  angry  pain.  "  Not  responsible,  in- 
deed !  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  you.  It  is  a  most  disgraceful 
thing,  and  I  do  n't  know  what  your  father  will  say." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  say  anything;  he 
need  n't  be  told,"  said  George,  a  trifle  sullenly.  "  Of  course, 
I  regret  it,  as  every  man  does  who  makes  such  a  deuced 
fool  of  himself.  And  the  girl  can't  complain ;  it  was  more 
her  fault,  anyhow." 

"  O,  George,  do  n't  be  a  coward  as  well  as  a  scoundrel," 
said  his  mother,  with  more  sharpness  in  her  tone  than  she 
had  ever  before  used  toward  her  idolized  son.  "  Do  n't  tell 
me  it  is  the  woman's  fault.  That  is  the  poor  excuse  all  men 
make  when  they  get  themselves  into  scrapes.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  her,  poor  thing,  and  I  think  I  '11  go  and  see  her 
myself." 

George  remained  silent,  standing  gloomily  at  the  window 
looking  on  the  approach,  with  its  trimly  cut  shrubs  and  spring 
flowers  blooming  in  conventional  lines.  His  mother  had  not 
received  his  information  quite  as  he  expected,  and  he  felt  for 
the  moment  utterly  u  down  on  his  luck." 

"  You  have  indeed  ruined  yourself  with  Gladys,  and  with 
any  other  girl  who  has  any  respect  for  herself,"  she  said 
presently,  with  increased  coldness.  "And  I  must  say  you 
richly  deserve  it." 

So  saying,  she  left  the  room,  and  as  she  went  up-stairs  two 
tears  rolled  down   her  cheeks.      She  was  not  a  woman  of 


A  REVELATION.  269 

very  deep  feelings  perhaps,  but  she  had  received  a  blow  from 
which  it  would  take  her  some  time  to  recover.  She  sat  down 
in  her  own  room,  and  tried  to  think  out  the  matter  in  all 
its  bearings.  She  felt  glad  that  her  husband  and  daughter 
were  not  to  dine  at  home ;  for  after  the  first  shock  was  over, 
worldly  wisdom  began  to  assert  itself,  and  she  pondered  upon 
the  best  means  of  avoiding  the  scandal  which  appeared  in- 
evitable. She  was  not  very  hopeful.  Had  Gladys  been  an 
ordinary  girl,  entertaining  less  exalted  ideas  of  honor  and 
integrity,  everything  might  have  been  smoothed  over. 

Women,  as  a  rule,  are  too  lenient  towards  the  follies  of 
men,  especially  when  the  offenders  are  young  and  hand- 
some; but  Gladys  was  an  exception  to  almost  every  rule. 
The  only  chance  lay  in  the  knowledge  being  kept  from  her ; 
yet  how  was  that  possible,  Liz  Hepburn  being  at  that  very 
moment  an  invited  guest  at  Bourhill?  She  made  some 
little  alteration  in  her  dress,  and  went  down,  perfectly  calm 
and  outwardly  at  ease,  to  a  tete-a-tete  dinner  with  her  son. 
When  they  were  left  alone  at  the  table,  she  suddenly 
changed  the  subject  from  the  commonplace  to  the  engross- 
ing theme  occupying  both  their  minds,  and,  leaning  towards 
him,  said  quietly: 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  you  can  do  now.  It  is  your 
only  chance,  and  if  it  fails,  you  can  only  retire  gracefully 
and  accept  your  conge  as  your  deserts." 

"  I  do  n't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  retorted,  a  trifle  un- 
graciously ;  for  in  his  intense  selfishness  he  had  been  able  to 
convince  himself  that  his  mother  had  been  rather  hard  upon 
him. 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  go  over  to  the  Crescent  to-night, 
and  see  Gladys,  and  tell  her  what  you  have  heard.  Let  her 
understand,  as  gently  and  nicely  as  you  can,  but  be  quite 
firm  over  it,  that  you,  as  her  future  husband,  have  some 
right  to  express  an  opinion  about  the  people  she  makes 
friends  of.  You  can  lay  stress  on  her  own  youth  and  igno- 
rance, and  do  n't  be  dictatorial.  Do  you  understand  me?" 


270  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Yes,  but  it  won't  be  an  easy  task,"  he  said,  gloomily. 

"  No ;  but  it 's  your  only  chance — a  very  forlorn  hope,  I 
confess  it  appears  to  me;  but  you  can't  afford  to  neglect  it, 
if  you  want  to  win  Gladys;  and  it  would  be  a  most  desirable 

marriage." 

e  • 

These  words  were  the  key-note  to  Mrs.  Fordyce's  plan  of 
action.  To  secure  Gladys  as  a  daughter-in-law  at  any  price, 
was  her  aim ;  and  she  had  already  stifled  her  womanly  in- 
dignation over  her  son's  fall,  and  even  comforted  herself  by 
the  cheap  reflection  that  George  had  never  been  half  so  fast 
as  dozens  of  other  young  men  who  were  received  into  the 
best  society.  She  had  worshiped  at  the  shrine  of  wealth  and 
social  position  so  long  that  all  her  views  of  life  were  cen- 
tered upon  a  solitary  goal,  and  consequently  ran  in  a  narrow 
and  distorted  groove. 

"If  the  girl  can  be  prevented  going  down  to  Bourhill. 
all  may  be  well.  Do  you  think  she  is  one  likely  to  hold  her 
tongue?" 

"  I  do  n't  know  anything  about  her.  She  '11  speak,  just  as 
other  women  speak,  I  suppose.  The  chances  are,  if  Gladys 
and  she  have  met,  she's  told  the  whole  story  already." 

"  O,  no  she  has  n't,  because  Gladys  knew  your  aunt  was 
coming  here  this  afternoon,  and  sent  a  message  that  you 
might  come  over  after  dinner.  She  would  n't  have  done  that 
if  she'd  known  that  pretty  story.  You  'd  better  go  away  to 
the  Crescent  at  once." 

"  I  'in  not  very  fond  of  the  job,"  said  George,  fortifying 
himself  with  a  glass  of  whisky  and  water.  "I've  a  good 
mind  to  throw  the  whole  thing  up,  and  go  off  to  the  antip- 
odes. Marrying  is  an  awful  bore,  anyhow ;  women  are  such 
a  nuisance." 

His  mother  listened  to  these  lofty  sentiments  in  silence, 
though  she  inwardly  felt  that  it  would  relieve  her  feelings 
considerably  to  administer  a  s<5und  box  in  the  ear. 

"I  'in  trying  to  help  you,  George,  against  my  better  judg- 
ment, but  you  do  n't  appfnr  to  be  very  grateful,"  she  said 


A  REVELATION.  271 

severely.  "  I  've  a  good  mind  to  let  you  bear  the  brunt  of 
your  folly,  as  you  deserve ;  and  you  know  very  well  that  if 
your  father  knew  about  it,  his  anger  would  be  terrific.  I  'in 
afraid  you  'd  have  to  take  to  the  antipodes  then,  because  the 
door  would  be  shut  upon  you  here.  I  would  advise  yon  to 
do  what  3*ou  can  to  redeem  yourself,  and  your  utmost  to 
keep  Gladys.  Tell  me  something  about  the  girl.  Do  you 
think  she  would  accept  a  sum  of  money  to  leave  Glasgow, 
and  hold  her  tongue?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  (( I  do  n't." 

"Why?  She  must  be  very  diffei-ent  from  other  girls  of 
her  class." 

"I  do  n't  know  what  are  the  characteristics  of  her  class; 
but  I  know  jolly  well  that  if  you  offer  money  to  her,  she  '11 
astonish  you." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  looked  with  keener  disfavor  into  her  son's 
face. 

"  If  she 's  that  kind  of  a  girl,  you  must  have  promised 
her  marriage." 

"  Well,  I  daresay  I  did ;  but  she  might  have  known  it 
was  only  talk,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  coolly,  though  his 
mother's  gaze  made  him  decidedly  uncomfortable.  "  But  I  'ra 
sick  of  the  subject.  I  '11  aw  a}'  over  to  Kelvinside,  and  have 
it  either  off  or  on.  If  the  thing  's  out,  I  11  brazen  it  out.  It 's 
the  only  way." 

"You  do  n't  seem  to  realize  the  seriousness  of  the  posi- 
tion. I  'm  sure  I  do  n't  know  what  has  made  you  go  so  far 
astray;  not  the  training  or  example  in  this  house.  You 
have  grievously  disappointed  me." 

"  O,  mother,  do  n't  preach.  I  Ve  confessed  to  you,  and  it 
isn't  fair  to  be  so  awfully  down  upon  me,"  he  retorted,  irri- 
tably. "  I  do  n't  think  you  or  the  governor  have  had  much 
to  complain  of  as  far  as  my  conduct  is  concerned,  and  I  'm 
not  going  to  stay  here  to  be  bullied  and  snubbed  for  making 
a  little  slip.  I  tell  you,  you  do  n't  know  what  other  fellows 
tiro.  I  've  a  good  mind  to  open  your  eyes  for  you." 


272  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  I  do  n't  want  them  opened,  thank  you ;  and  if  that  is  the 
spirit  in  which  you  are  going  to  the  Crescent,  you  deserve 
to  fail,  as  you  are  sure  to  do.  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall 
not  tell  your  father  after  all,"  she  said,  icily. 

"I  don't  care  if  you  do,"  he  retorted,  and  banged  out  in 
ill-humor,  which,  however,  gradually  cooled  down  as  he 
walked  rapidly  to  the  station.  Finding  no  train  for  the  city 
due  for  ten  minutes,  he  threw  himself  into  a  hansom,  and 
drove  all  the  way,  reaching  his  aunt's  house  before  eight  o'clock. 
Although  he  ran  up  the  steps  at  once,  he  did  not  immedi- 
ately ring,  but  even  went  back  into  the  street,  and  took  a  turn 
up  to  the  end  of  the  houses,  surprised  and  irritated  at  his  own 
nervous  apprehension.  Glancing  up  to  the  house  when  he 
again  came  opposite  to  it,  he  saw  the  three  long  windows  of 
the  drawing-room  lighted,  and  pictured  the  scene  within.  It 
was  a  new  and  unwelcome  sensation  for  him  to  feel  any  re- 
luctance in  entering  a  drawing-room  where  there  were  three 
charming  girls ;  and  at  last,  calling  himself  a  fool,  he  ran  up 
the  steps  a  second  time,  and  gave  the  bell  a  furious  pull. 

"  Is  Miss  Graham  here,  Hardy?"  he  asked  the  maid,  an 
old  servant  of  his  aunt's,  who  opened  the  door. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Anybody  in  the  library  ?" 

"No,  sir;  Mr.  Fordyce  is  sleeping  on  the  dining-room 
sofa." 

"  O,  all  right.  Just  take  my  card  to  Miss  Graham,  and  ask 
her  if  she  would  be  so  kind  as  to  come  down  to  the  library 
for  a  few  minutes." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


OW  extraordinary!"  exclaimed  Gladys.  "Your 
cousin  is  in  the  library;  why  does  he  not 
come  up?" 

There  was  something  so  matter-of-fact  in  the 
question  that  Mrs.  Fordyce  and  her  daughters 
could  not  refrain  from  exchanging  glances. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  suppose  he  does  not  come  up  because 
he  wishes  to  have  you  a  little  while  to  himself,"  said  Mrs. 
Fordyce,  with  a  smile,  "  And  I  must  say  I  quite  sympathize 
with  him.  Eun  away  down,  and  do  n't  stay  too  long.  Tell 
him  not  to  be  selfish." 

"  But  I  do  n't  think  I  want  to  go  down.  It  is  so  strange, 
I  think,  for  him  not  to  come  up  here  as  usual.  Why  should 
there  be  any  difference  made?"  inquired  Gladys,  as  she  rose 
with  seeming  reluctance  to  her  feet. 

"It  is  you  who  are  strange,  I  think,"  said  Miaa,  whimsi- 
cally. "  You  would  require  a  very  cool  lover,  Gladys,  you  are 
so  cool  yourself." 

"  It  is  a  pity  one  must  have  a  lover,"  said  Gladys,  quite 
soberly,  as  she  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  Girls,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  "  Gladys  is  an  enigma,  and 

18  273 


274  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

I  give  her  up.  She  is  so  different  from  any  one  I  have  ever 
met.  Do  you  really  think  she  cares  anything  for  your 
cousin?" 

"If  she  does  n't,  why  has  she  promised  to  marry  him?" 
inquired  Clara,  rather  quickly.  "  I  think  it  is  rather  absurd 
to  ask  the  question." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  should  not  particularly  like  to  be  in 
his  shoes,"  said  Miua,  and  added,  with  light  sarcasm,  "but  it 
will  do  dear  George  good.  Gladys  will  not  fall  down  and 
worship  him  like  the  rest  of  her  sex.  How  I  should  like  to 
be  invisible  at  this  moment  in  the  library !" 

But  though  Mina  had  had  her  wish  she  would  not  have  seen 
anything  \evy  exciting,  the  greeting  which  passed  between 
Gladys  and  her  lover  being  remarkably  cool.  George  For- 
dyce  was  not  quite  himself.  Had  Gladys  been  more  absorb- 
ingly interested  in  him  she  could  not  have  failed  to  observe 
the  furtive  look  of  anxiety  with  which  he  advanced  to  meet 
her.  His  demeanor  was  as  different  from  the  ordinary  eager- 
ness of  a  newly-accepted  lover  as  could  well  be  imagined. 
Nor  did  she  betray  those  signs  of  maidenly  shyness  and 
trembling  joy  which,  in  the  circumstances,  she  might  have 
been  expected  to  feel. 

"  Good-evening !"  she  said,  gayly.  "Why  did  you  not 
come  up,  instead  of  sending  a  message  to  me,  as  if  you  were 
a  person  asking  a  subscription?  I  thought  it  so  odd." 

George's  courage  rose.  The  gay  unconcern  of  her  de- 
meanor convinced  him  that  as  yet  nothing  had  lowered  him 
in  her  estimation.  With  a  little  careful  diplomacy  the  dan- 
gerous currents  might  yet  be  avoided,  and  all  go  well. 

"  Is  it  so  odd  that  I  should  wish  to  have  you  for  a  little 
while  to  myself?"  he  asked,  and,  putting  his  arm  round  her 
shoulders,  took  the  kiss  she  could  not  deny  him,  though  she 
almost  immediately  drew  herself  away. 

"  Do  come  up  to  the  drawing-room.  Why  should  we  stay 
down  here?  Do  n't  you  think  it  rather  silly?" 

"  I  do  n't  care  whether  it  is  silly  or  not/'  he  answered, 


TETE-A-TETE.  275 

daringly.  "  I  do  u't  mean  to  go  up,  or  allow  you  to  leave 
this  room  for  a  good  half-hour  at  least." 

Gladys  laughed  a  little,  and  dropped  on  one  knee  on  a 
stool  before  the  quaint  fire-place,  where  the  logs  burned  and 
crackled  in  a  cheerful  blaze. 

"And  I  have  a  crow  to  pick  with  you,  madam,"  said  the 
lover,  made  bolder  by  the  perfect  freedom  of  the  girl's  de- 
meanor. "  I  do  n't  like  second-hand  messages.  You  might 
at  least  have  sent  me  a  nice  little  note  by  the  hand  of  Aunt 
Isabel  this  afternoon." 

'*  I  did  n't  think  of  it,  or  I  might,''  answered  Glad}Ts,  quite 
soberly,  and  the  ruddy  firelight  lay  warm  and  bright  on  her 
sweet  face,  and  gave  a  deeper  tinge  to  the  gold  of  her  hair. 
As  George  Fordyce  stood  as  near  to  her  as  he  dared,  being 
deterred  by  a  certain  high  dignity  in  her  bearing,  he  was 
struck  not  only  by  the  perfect  beauty  of  her  features,  but  by 
the  singular  firmness  mingling  with  the  archness  of  her  look. 
Twelve  months  had  done  a  great  deal  for  Gladys,  and  there 
was  nothing  of  the  child  left,  though  the  new  womanliness 
was  a  most  gracious  and  lovely  thing. 

"I  had  such  a  busy  morning  down  town — and  O,  I 
have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you,  only  you  must  promise  to  be 
sympathetic,  because  I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  bear  to-day, 
and  have  almost  quarreled  with  your  aunt  and  the  girls." 

"Yes?"  he  said,  with  all  the  fine  indifference  he  could 
command.  "And  what  was  it  all  about?" 

He  knew  it  must  come  sooner  or  later,  and  braced  him- 
self up  to  carry  matters  through  with  as  high  a  hand  as 
possible. 

"About  that  poor  girl  of  whom  I  told  you — Lizzie  Hep- 
burn. She  has  come  back,  looking  so  very  ill  and  unhappy, 
and  of  course  I  asked  her  down  to  Bourhill,  and  your  aunt 
and  cousins  are  so  vexed  about  it,  I  am  quite  puzzled.  It  is 
so  unlike  them  to  b.lame  one  for  wishing  to  be  kind.  Please 
can  you  explain  it?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  with  something  of  the  old 


276  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

child-like  wistfulness  in  their  depths,  and  it  showed  George 
Fordjce  to  be  a  very  clever  man  indeed  that  he  was  able  to 
meet  that  clear  gaze  without  flinching. 

"  Well,  you  see,  dear,  I  think  it  is  regard  for  you  which 
made  Aunt  Isabel  appear  a  little  harsh.  She  knows  the 
world,  and  you  do  not ;  and,  you  know,  a  young  and  lovely 
girl,  living  without  natural  protectors,  as  you  are,  can  not 
be  too  careful." 

"  O,  that  is  just  how  they  talk,"  she  cried,  petulantly. 
"  But  it  does  not  convey  any  meaning  to  me.  "Why  should 
I  not  be  kind  to  this  poor  girl?  She  can't  eat  me,  or  hurt 
me  in  the  smallest  degree.  You  must  make  it  a  great  deal 
plainer  to  me  before  I  see  the  smallest  particle  of  reason 
in  it." 

Here  was  a  dilemma  1  The  very  irony  of  fate  could  not 
have  devised  a  more  trying  and  awkward  position  for  any 
man.  To  say  he  felt  himself  on  the  brink  of  a  volcano,  con- 
veys but  a  faint  idea  of  his  peculiar  state  of  mind. 

"  My  own  darling,  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  make  it  any 
clearer  without  giving  offense ;  but  I  think  you  ought  to  have 
some  idea  of  what  is  fitting.  Can  you  not  believe  that  we 
who  love  you  so  dearly  would  advise  you  to  do  nothing  but 
what  is  right  and  best  for  you?" 

This  admirable  plea,  so  earnestly  and  persuasively  ut- 
tered, somewhat  touched  Gladys,  though  her  face  still  wore  a 
perplexed  and  even  troubled  look. 

"  Well,  but — how  can  it  do  me  any  harm  to  have  these 
girls  at  Bourhill?  Is  it  because  they  are  poor  that  I  must 
not  have  them?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly,  though,  of  course,  it  is  not  customary  for 
young  ladies  like  you  to  invite  such  people  to  be  their  guests 
just  in  the  same  way  as  you  would  invite  Clara  or  Mina;  and 
I  question  very  much,  dear,  if  it  is  any  real  kindness  to  them, 
it  is  so  apt  to  make  them  discontented  with  their  own  sphere." 

This  was  another  clever  stroke,  this  view  of  the  case  not 
having  been  as  yet  presented  to  Gladys.  Hitherto  the  talk 


TE  TE-A-  TETE.  277 

had  all  been  of  the  influence  such  companionship  was  likely 
to  have  on  her,  and  the  next  phase  of  the  situation  made  her 
more  thoughtful  still. 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said,  slowly,  "and  I  do  n't 
think  it  had  that  effect  on  Christina  Balfour — in  fact,  I  am 
sure  of  it.  She  is  like  a  different  creature — so  much  brighter 
and  happier ;  and  I  am  sure  a  week  or  two  at  Bourhill  will 
do  wonders  for  poor  Lizzie  Hepburn.  If  you  saw  her  you 
would  be  quite  sorry  for  her.  She  is  such  an  interesting 
girl,  so  beautiful;  and  she  has  a  great  deal  of  character, 
quite  different  from  Christina.  I  have  asked  them  down, 
and,  of  course,  I  can't  retract  my  invitations.  They  may  have 
gone  down  to  Miss  Peck  already,  for  aught  I  know.  Promise 
to  come  down  to  Bourhill  and  see  poor  Lizzie;  then,  I  am 
sure,  you  will  say  I  have  done  quite  right." 

A  cold  sweat  broke  over  George  Fordyce,  and  he  was  fain 
to  take  several  turns  between  the  window  and  the  door  to 
recover  himself.  He  could  almost  have  laughed  aloud  at  the 
awful  absurdity  of  the  whole  situation,  only  it  had  its  tragic 
side,  too.  He  felt  that  his  chance  was  almost  over.  He 
could  not  expect  Liz  Hepburn's  visit  to  Bourhill  to  be  bar- 
ren of  consequences  the  most  serious.  But  he  would  wear 
the  mask  as  long  as  possible,  and  make  one  more  endeavor 
to  save  himself.  He  came  back  to  the  hearth,  and  laying  his 
hand  hurriedly  on  the  arm  of  the  girl  he  loved,  with  all 
the  tenderness  that  was  in  him,  he  said,  in  that  pleading, 
winning  way  so  few  women  could  resist — 

"  My  darling,  if  I  ask  you,  won't  you  take  Aunt  Isabel's 
advice?  1  know  I  haven't  any  right  yet  to  dictate  to  you, 
even  if  I  wished  to  do  it;  but  won't  you  believe  that 
we  only  advise  what  is  the  very  best  for  you?  Couldn't 
you,  instead  of  having  the  girls  at  Bourhill,  send  them  to 
some  other  country  place?  It  would  only  cost  a  very  little 
more." 

"  But  that  would  n't  be  the  same  thing  at  all,"  said 
Gladys,  willfully.  "And  if  I  were  to  retract  my  invitation 


278  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

now,  they  would  never  have  the  same  faith  in  me  again.  I 
would  not  on  any  account  disappoint  them." 

"Even  to  please  me?"  he  queried,  with  a  slightly  in- 
jured air. 

"  Even  to  please  you,"  she  repeated,  in  the  same  willful 
tone. 

"And  will  it  always  be  the  same?"  he  asked  then.  "  Will 
you  never  allow  me  to  have  any  say  in  your  affairs?" 

"  I  hoped  you  would  help  me  to  do  good  to  people,"  she 
said,  slowly,  giving  utterance  for  the  first  time  to  the  feeling 
of  disappointment  and  misgiving  which  sometimes  oppressed 
her  when  she  thought  of  her  relation  towards  George 
Fordyce. 

"My  dear,  you  will  get  all  your  thanks  in  one  day,"  he 
said,  dryly.  "I  know  the  class  you  have  to  deal  with. 
They  '11  take  all  you  have  to  give  them,  and  laugh  in  your 
face.  They  have  no  such  quality  as  gratitude  in  them." 

Gladys  curled  her  lips  in  scorn. 

"  How  unhappy  you  must  be  to  have  so  little  faith  in  hu- 
man kind !  That  has  not  been  my  experience ;  but  we 
shall  never  agree  on  that  point.  Shall  we  go  up-stairs 
now?" 

Her  perfect  independence  of  and  indifference  to  his  opin- 
ion, betrayed  in  the  careless  ease  of  her  manner  as  she  rose 
from  the  hearth,  exasperated  him  not  a  little. 

"  No,  I  am  not  coming  up-stairs,"  he  answered,  as  rudely 
as  he  dared. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  Mrs.  Fordyce,  then?  That  you  are 
out  of  temper?"  she  asked,  with  a  sly  gayety  which  became 
her  well,  though  it  only  further  exasperated  him. 

"You  can  say  anything  you  like.  I  am  very  sorry, 
indeed,  that  my  opinion  is  of  so  little  value  in  your  eyes, 
Gladys,  and  I  ask  your  pardon  if  I  have  presumed  too  much 
in  offering  you  a  crumb  of  advice." 

"  O,  do  n't  be  cross  because  we  do  n't  happen  to  agree  on 
that  particular  point,"  she  said,  sunnily.  "Each  individual 


TETE-A-TETE.  279 

is  surely  entitled  to  his  opinion.  I  am  not  cross  because 
you  would  not  agree  with  me.  Come  away  up-stairs." 

"  No,  I  'm  not  coming  up  to-night.  Make  my  apologies  to 
them.  Gladys,  upon  my  word,  you  are  perfectly  bewitching. 
I  wish  you  knew  how  passionately  I  love  you.  I  do  n't  be- 
lieve you  care  a  tithe  as  much  for  me  as  I  do  for  you." 

He  would  have  held  her  again,  but  she  moved  away  from 
him,  and  her  face  did  not  brighten  as  it  ought  to  have  done 
at  such  a  lover-like  speech. 

"  Will  you  promise  me  one  thing,  Gladys,  before  I  go?" 
he  pleaded,  and  he  had  never  been  more  in  earnest  in  his 
life.  "  Promise  me  that  if  anybody  speaks  ill  of  me  to  you, 
you  will  at  least  give  me  a  chance  to  clear  myself  before  you 
condemn  me." 

"O,  I  can  promise  that  fast  enough,  because  nobody  ever 
speaks  ill  of  you  to  me.  It  is  quite  the  reverse,  I  assure 
you.  I  have  to  listen  to  your  praises  all  day  long,"  she  said, 
with  a  teasing  smile.  "You  ought  to  show  your  gratitude 
for  such  disinterested  kindness  by  coming  up  to  the 
ladies." 

"  I  am  not  going  up  to-night,"  he  reiterated.  "  Give  them 
my  kind  regards.  Are  you  really  off?" 

"  I  must,  if  you  won't  come." 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her,  and,  as  she  passed  out,  stole 
another  kiss  with  all  a  lover's  passion,  telling  himself  it 
might  be  the  last.  But  it  did  not  make  her  pulses  thrill,  nor 
her  heart  beat  more  quickly,  and  she  saw  him  depart  without 
a  regret. 

"  You  do  n't  mean  to  say  that  is  George  going  away," 
they  cried,  when  the  outer  hall-door  closed,  and  almost  im- 
mediately Gladys  entered  the  drawing-room  alone. 

"  Yes,  he  has  gone,"  Gladys  answered,  calmly. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  him  to  set  him  off  like 
that?''  asked  Mina.  '-Have  you  had  a  quarrel?" 

"  Xo,"  replied  Gladys,  innocently.  "But  I  think  he  is 
rather  cross." 


280 


THE  GU1XEA  STAMP. 


Mrs.  Fordyce  shook  her  finger  reprovingly  at  the  girl,  and 
eaid,  regretfully : 

"  My  dear,  you  are  incorrigible.  I  could  almost  regret 
Henrietta  Bonnemain's  marriage,  because  she  is  the  only 
woman  in  this  world  who  could  have  managed  you." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

CHUMS. 

|EVEE  did  mother  watch  more  tenderly  over  a 
wayward  child  than    the   little  seamstress  over 
Liz ;  and  though  Liz  was  quite  conscious  of  the 
espionage  she  did  not  resent  it.     She  seemed  to 
have  no  desire  to  leave  the  little  house ;  and  when 
Teen,  in  the  course  of  that  afternoon,  offered  to  go  to  the 
house  in  Maryhill  for  her  clothes,  she  made  no  demur,  nor 
did  she  offer  to  accompany  her. 

"  If  the  lassie  I  'm  lodgin'  wi'  is  in,  Teen,  ye  can  tell  her 
I  'm  no  comin'  back.  I  'm  very  glad  to  get  quit  of  her,  ony 
way,"  she  said,  as  Teen  buttoned  on  her  shabby  black 
jacket. 

"  What 's  her  name?  Had  ye  better  no  write  a  line,  for 
fear  she  '11  no  gie  me  the  things." 

"  O,  she  '11  gie  ye  them  withoot  ony  bother ;  they  wadna 
bring  her  abune  ten  shillin's,  ony  hoo.  An',  I  say,  dinna  tell 
her  onything  aboot  me — mind.  She  'd  think  naething  o' 
comin'  ony  where  efter  me." 

0,  1  '11  no  tell.  Clashin'  was  never  my  sin,"  said  Teen. 
"  But  her  name  ;  ye  havena  telt  me  that  yet." 

"  0,  well,  she  ca's  herself  Mrs.  Gordon ;  but  I    dinna 

281 


282  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

believe  she  's  a  wife  at  a'.  She  's  in  the  ballet  at  the  Olym- 
pic, the  noo." 

"An'  what  way  is  she  bidin'  at  Maryhill?" 

"  0,  her  man  's  there.  She  says  she  mairret  to  ane  o'  the 
officers;  but  I  've  never  set  een  on  him." 

"Is  she  a  nice  lassie?" 

"  O,  weel  enough.  She  's  no  mean,  onyhoo  ;  but  she  's 
gey  fast.  She  was  tryin'  to  get  me  taen  on  at  the  Olympic. 
If  she  says  onything,  jist  tell  her  I  've  changed  my  mind." 

"An'  are  ye  no  awn  onything  for  the  lodgin's?"  queried 
Teen,  who  had  a  singular  conscientiousness  regarding  debt, 
even  of  a  microscopic  kind. 

"No.  I  paid  up  when  I  had  it.  I  dinna  owe  her 
naething." 

Teen  was  silent  as  she  put  her  long  hat-pin  through  the 
heavy  masses  of  her  hair  and  pulled  her  fringe  a  little  over 
on  her  brow.  But  she  thought  a  great  deal.  Bit  by  bit  the 
story  was  coming  out,  and  she  had  no  difficulty  in  filling  up 
for  herself  the  melancholy  details. 

"Now  I'm  ready;  ye '11  no  slope  when  I'm  oot,  Liz," 
she  said  warningly,  and  Liz  laughed  a  dreary,  mirthless 
laugh. 

"  I  ken  when  I  'm  weel  aff.  I  wish  to  goodness  I  had 
come  ta  you  when  I  was  sick  o'  Brigton,  instead  o'  gaun 
where  I  gaed." 

Teen  stood  still  in  breathless  silence,  wondering  if  full 
revelation  was  about  to  be  made.  When  Liz  saw  this  the 
old  spirit  of  coatrariness  entered  into  her  again,  and  she 
said,  crossly — 

"  What  are  ye  waitin'  on  noo?" 

"Naething,"  replied  Teen,  meekly.  "  Weel,  I 'm  aff.  I'll 
be  back  afore  dark.  Ye  can  hae  the  kettle  bilin',  and  I  '11 
bring  in  a  sausage  or  a  red  herrin'  for  oor  tea." 

It  was  not  without  some  faint  excited  curiosity  that  Teen 
found  herself  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  which  Liz  had 
given  her  the  address.  It  was  a  one-roomed  abode,  three 


CHUMS.  283 

stairs  up  a  tall  tenement,  in  one  of  those  dreary  and  uninter- 
esting streets  which  are  only  distinguished  from  one  another 
by  their  names.  In  answer  to  her  knock  a  shrill  female 
voice  cried,  "  Come  in," — an  invitation  which  the  little 
seamstress  somewhat  hesitatingly  obeyed. 

It  was  now  after  sundown,  and  the  freshness  of  the  day- 
light had  faded,  leaving  a  kind  of  semi-twilight  in  the  room, 
which  was  of  a  fair  size,  and  comfortably  though  not  luxu- 
riously furnished.  On  the  end  of  the  fender  sat  the  solitary 
occupant,  in  a  ragged  and  dirty  old  dressing-gown  of  pink 
flannel,  her  feet  in  dilapidated  slippers,  and  her  hair  in  curl- 
papers along  her  forehead.  Although  she  saw  that  her  vis- 
itor was  quite  a  stranger  to  her,  she  did  not  offer  to  rise,  but 
simply  raising  her  pert,  faded,  but  still  rather  pretty  face, 
said,  inquiringly — 

"Well?" 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Gordon  ?  I  've  come  for  Lizzie  Hepburn's 
things.  She  's  no  coming  back  here." 

"  O,  all  right;  shut  the  door  and  come  in.  What's  up 
with  her?  Gone  off  with  a  handsomer  man,  eh?"  queried 
Mrs.  Gordon,  as  she  bit  her  thread  through,  and  held  up  a 
newly  trimmed  dress-bodice  for  admiration. 

"No,  she's  gaun  into  the  country  the  morn,"  answered 
Teen,  while  the  ballet-dancer  gave  several  very  knowing 
nods. 

"That's  a  pity,  for  her  luck  's  turned.  You  can  tell  her 
she'll  be  taken  on,  if  she  likes  to  turn  up  at  the  Olympic 
to-morrow  morning  at  ten  sharp.  I  arranged  it  for  her  on 
Saturday  night." 

"  She  said  I  was  to  tell  you  she  had  changed  her  mind 
aboot  the  theater,"  said  Teen.  "  She  's  no  well  enough  for 
it  anyhow.  She  '11  be  better  in  the  country." 

"Are  you  her  sister  ?" 

"  O  no ;  only  her  chum." 

u  Well,  I  say,  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  something  about 
her.  She  was  close  as  the  grave,  though  we  've  been  pals 


284  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

for  a  while;  she'd  not  tell  me  a  single  thing.  Whj-  is  she 
out  on  her  own  hook?  Is  there  a  man  in  the  business?" 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  you,"  said  Teen,  looking 
rather  uncomfortable  over  this  cross-examination.  "And  if 
you  '11  tell  me  where  her  box  is,  I  must  be  going.  I  prom- 
ised no  to  be  long." 

"It's  there  at  the  end  of  the  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon, 
serenely,  jerking  her  thumb  in  that  direction.  "  I  see  you 
mean  to  be  close,  too ;  not  that  it  matters  a  cent  to  me.  I  've 
no  earthly  interest  in  her  affairs.  You  can  tell  her,  if  you 
like,  that  Captain  Dent  was  inquiring  affectionately  for  her 
this  morning.  I  met  him  on  my  way  back  from  rehearsal." 

Teen  listened  in  silence,  and  mentally  decided  that  she 
would  not  tell  her  any  such  thing. 

"And  you  can  tell  her,  if  you  like,  that  I  '11  be  glad  to  see 
her  any  time  before  the  twenty-third.  The  Eighty-fifth  are 
ordered  to  Ireland,  and  of  course  my  husband  will  wish  me 
to  go  with  him." 

A  slow  smile,  in  which  there  was  the  faintest  touch  of 
sarcasm,  was  in  Teen's  face,  as  she  glanced  at  the  tawdry 
figure  sitting  on  the  fender-end. 

"A'richt.  I '11  tell  her;  an' guid-nicht  to  ye.  I'm  very 
much  obleeged,"  she  said;  and  taking  Liz's  tin  box  in  her 
hand,  she  left  a  trifle  hastily,  as  if  afraid  she  should 
be  longer  detained.  She  found  Liz  sitting  where  she  had 
left  her,  in  the  same  listless  attitude,  and  her  eyes  were  red 
about  the  rims,  as  if  she  had  had  a  crying  fit.  The  fire  was 
very  low,  and  the  kettle  standing  cold  where  Teen  had  left 
it  on  the  hearth-stone. 

"  I  forgot  a'  aboot  the  kettle,  Teen,"  she  said,  apologet- 
ically. "  I  'm  a  lazy  tyke ;  but  dinna  rage.  Weel,  ye  've  got 
the  box.  Did  ye  see  Emily?" 

"  Yes,  if  that  'B  her  name.  She  's  a  queer  yin,"  said  Teen, 
as  she  let  the  box  drop,  and  grasped  the  poker  to  improve 
the  condition  of  the  fire.  "  You  dinna  seem  to  have  telt  her 
much,  Liz,  ony  mair  than  me." 


CHUMS.  285 

"  No,  it 's  aj*e  best  to  keep  dark.  I  dinna  mean  anything 
ill,  Teen;  but  naebody  shall  ever  ken  frae  me  whaur  I've 
been  or  what  I  've  suffered  since  I  gaed  awa'.  Ay,  what  I've 
suffered '' — she  repeated  these  words  with  a  passionate  inten- 
sity which  caused  Teen  to  regard  her  with  a  kind  of  awe. 
"  But  may  be  my  day  '11  come,  an;  if  it  does,  I  winna  forget," 
she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  her  companion;  then  catch- 
ing sight  of  Teen's  astonished  face,  she  broke  into  a  laugh, 
and  said,  in  quite  a  different  tone : 

"  Weel,  is  't  the  morn  we  're  gaun  among  the  swells  ?  An' 
hoo  d'ye  put  in  the  time  in  the  country?'1 

"  You  '11  see,"  replied  Teen,  with  quiet  satisfaction.  "  The 
days  are  ower  short;  that's  the  only  fault  they  hae.  Efter 
we  get  oor  supper,  what  wad  ye  say  to  gang  roond  to  Col- 
quhoun  Street  and  see  Wat,  to  tell  him  we're  gaun  to  Bour- 
hill?" 

"  No,  I  'm  no  gaun.  He  micht  say  we  werena  to  gang. 
I  say,  Teen,  he 's  in  love  wi'  her.  Ouybody  can  see  in  his 
e'e  when  he  speaks  aboot  her." 

"  I  ken  that ;  but  it 's  nae  use,"  said  Teen.  "  She  's  gaun 
to  mairry  somebody  else." 

"  Is  she?     D'ye  ken  wha?" 

"Ay,  your  auld  flame,"  said  Teen,  apparently  at  random, 
but  all  the  while  keenly  watching  her  companion's  face.  She 
saw  Liz  become  as  pale  as  death,  though  she  smiled  a  sickly 
smile,  and  tried  to  speak  as  indifferently  as  possible. 

"Ye  dinna  mean  it?  Weel,  I'd  'a'  thocht  she  wad  hae 
waled  better.  Hoo  sune  are  we  gaun  the  morn  ?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  eagerness,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment the  little  seamstress  observed  that  her  whole  manner 
changed.  She  suddenly  began  to  display  a  new  and  absorb- 
ing interest  in  the  preparations  for  their  departure,  and  plied 
Teen  with  questions  regarding  the  place  and  her  former  ex- 
periences there.  The  little  seamstress,  being  a  person  of  a  re- 
markably shrewd  and  observing  turn,  saw  in  this  awakened 
interest  only  another  link  in  the  chain  which  now  appeared 


286  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

to  her  almost  complete.  Her  former  elation  over  their  trip 
to  Bourhill  gave  place  to  a  painful  anxiety  lest  it  should 
hasten  events  to  a  crisis  in  which  the  happiness  of  Gladys 
might  be  sadly  involved.  But  it  was  now  too  late  to  help 
matters,  and  with  a  bit  of  philosophical  calmness  she  said 
within  herself,  "  What  is  to  be  maun  be,"  and  went  on  with 
her  preparations  for  the  morrow's  journey. 

They  set  out  accordingly  about  noon  next  day,  carrying 
their  belongings  in  the  inevitable  tin  box,  and  arrived  at 
Mauchline  Station  quite  early  in  the  afternoon — a  lovely 
afternoon,  when  all  the  spring  airs  were  about,  and  a  voice 
of  gladness  over  the  spring's  promise  in  the  note  of  every 
bird  singing  on  the  bending  boughs.  With  what  keenness  of 
interest  did  the  little  seamstress  watch  the  effect  of  country 
sights  and  sounds  upon  Liz,  and  how  it  pleased  her  to  see 
the  slow  wonder  gather  in  her  eyes  as  they  wandei-ed  across 
the  wide  landscape,  over  the  rich  breadths  of  the  plowed  fields 
in  which  the  sowers  were  busy,  to  the  sheltering  woods  glist- 
ening greenly  in  the  sun,  and  the  blue  hills  in  the  hazy  dis- 
tance seeming  to  shut  in  the  world ! 

It  was  her  pride  and  pleasure  to  point  out  to  her  com- 
panion, as  they  walked,  each  familiar  and  cherished  land- 
mark, and  though  Liz  did  not  say  much,  it  was  evident  that 
she  was  in  a  manner  lifted  out  of  herself.  The  pure,  fra- 
grant air  flowing  about  her,  the  wide  and  wonderful  beauty 
of  green  fields  and  sunny  slopes,  filled  the  soul  of  Liz  with  a 
vague,  yearning  wonder  which  was  almost  pain.  It  brought 
home  to  her  sharply  a  sense  of  all  she  had  lost  in  the  great 
and  evil  city;  it  was  like  a  revelation  of  some  boundless 
good  of  which  she  had  hitherto  lived  in  ignorance,  and  it 
awakened  in  her  a  bitter  regret  which  was  in  very  truth  re- 
bellious anger  that  the  beauty  of  the  earth  should  have  so 
long  been  hid  from  her. 

"  It  'B  a  shame,"  she  said,  "  a  horrid  shame,  that  we  should 
never  hae  kent  there  was  a  place  like  this  ootside  o'  Grlesca. 


CHUMS.  287 

Wha  is 't  made  for? — the  rich,  I  suppose,  as  the  best 
things  are." 

"  O  no,"  said  Teen,  quite  gently.  "  There  are  plenty  puir 
folk  in  the  country,  an'  bad  folk  too.  Mrs.  Galbraith  says 
there  's  as  muckle  drink  drucken  in  Poosie  Nansie's  on  Set- 
urday  nicht  as  in  Johnnie  Shields',  in  the  Wynd ;  but  some 
way  it  seems  different.  Look,  see,  thonder's  the  big  gate  o' 
Bourhill.  Eh,  I  wonder  if  Miss  Gladys  is  name?" 

"  I  say,  Teen,  ye  are  vera  fond  o'  her,  surely,"  said  Liz, 
curiously.  "Since  when?  Ye  didna  like  her  sae  weel  that 
nicht  I  left  ye  to  tak'  her  hame  frae  the  Ariel." 

"No,  but  I  didua  ken  her  then.  Yes,  I  'in  fond  o'  her; 
an'  there's  naething  I  wadna  dae  for  her.  I  wad  let  her 
walk  abune  me,  if  it  wad  dae  her  ony  guid,"  said  the  little 
seamstress,  her  plain  face  glorified  once  more  by  the  great 
love  which  had  grown  up  within  her  till  it  had  become  the 
passion  of  her  life. 

"  Ye  needna  fash ;  that 's  the  way  I  've  heard  lassies 
speak  aboot  men  ;  an'  ye  get  a'  your  thanks  in  ae  day,"  said 
Liz,  bitterly.  "  The  best  thing  onybody  can  dae  in  this 
world  is  to  look  after  No.  1.  It 's  the  only  thing  worth  livin' 
for.  I  wish  I  had  never  been  born,  an'  I  hope  I  '11  no  live 
lang,  that 's  mair." 

"0,  Liz,  wheesht!" 

"  What  for  should  I  wheesht?  It 's  no  the  first  time  I  've 
been  doon  at  the  Broomielaw,  tak  in'  a  look  roon  for  a  likely 
place  to  jump  in  quietly  frae.  That  '11  be  my  end,  Teen 
Ba'foor,  as  sure  as  I  'm  here  the  day ;  then  they  '11  hae  a 
paragraph  in  the  News,  an'  bury  me  in  the  puirhoose  grave. 
It 's  a  lively  prospect." 

Teen  said  nothing;  only  made  a  vow  within  herself  that 
she  would  do  what  she  could  to  avert  from  the  girl  she  loved 
such  a  melancholy  fate. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
IN  VAIN. 

ISS  CAEOLINE  PECK  had  received  that  very 
morning  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Fordyce,  of  Bellairs 
Crescent — a  letter  which  had  put  her  all  in  a 
flutter.  It  was  a  letter  of  warning,  counsel,  and 
reproof  concerning  Miss  Peck's  duty  towards 
her  young  charge,  and  laying  a  strong  injunction  upon  her 
to  be  exceedingly  judicious  in  her  treatment  of  the  eccentric 
guests  whom  Gladys  had  again  invited  to  Bourhill.  It  was 
not  a  wise  epistle  at  all,  though  Mrs.  Fordyce  had  regarded  it 
with  complacency  as  a  triumph  of  diplomatic  letter- writing. 
Instead  of  stating  plainly  the  whole  facts,  and  pointing  out 
how  desirable  it  was  that  Gladys  should  not  be  thrown  too 
much  into  the  company  of  the  gii'ls  from  the  East  End,  it 
threw  out  certain  dark  hints  which  only  mystified  and  dis- 
tressed poor  little  Miss  Peck,  and  made  her  anticipate  with 
apprehension  the  arrival  of  the  pair. 

It  was  a  letter  which,  moreover,  could  not  possibly  do  the 
smallest  good,  seeing  Miss  Peck  was  not  only  far  too  fond  of 
her  young  charge  to  cross  her  in  the  slightest  whim,  but  that 
she  secretly  approved  of  everything  she  did.  Of  Mrs. 
Fordyce  Miss  Peck  was  mortally  afraid  •  and  that  very  kind- 
288 


IN  VAIN.  289 

hearted  person  would  have  been  amazed  had  she  known  how 
the  little  spinster,  metaphorically  speaking,  shrank  into  her- 
self in  her  presence.  The  solemn  warning  she  had  received 
did  not,  however,  prevent  her  giving  the  two  girls  a  warm 
welcome  when  they  presented  themselves  at  the  house  that 
afternoon. 

"  Miss  Graham  has  not  come  home,  Christina,"  she  said, 
fussily,  as  she  shook  hands  with  them  both.  "  But  I  feel 
sure  she  will  be  here  to-night.  Meantime  I  must  do  what  I 
can  to  make  you  comfortable.  Come  with  me  to  your  old 
room,  Christina,  and  you  shall  have  tea  directly." 

Though  she  had  directed  all  her  remarks  to  Teen,  she  did 
not  fail  at  the  same  time  to  make  the  keenest  scrutiny  of  her 
companion,  whose  appearance  filled  the  little  spinster  with 
wonder.  She  was  certainly  a  very  handsome  girl,  and  there 
was  nothing  forward  or  offensive  in  her  manner;  nay, 
rather,  she  seemed  to  feel  somewhat  shy,  and  kept  herself  in 
the  background  as  much  as  possible.  Acting  slightly  on 
Mrs.  Fordyce's  advice,  Miss  Peck  gave  the  girls  their  tea, 
with  its  delightful  adjuncts  of  new-laid  eggs  and  spring 
chicken,  in  her  own  sitting-room,  and  she  quite  prided  her- 
self on  her  strength  of  mind,  as  she  decided  to  advise  Gladys 
to  give  them  their  meals  by  themselves,  except  on  a  rare  oc- 
casion, when  she  might  wish  to  give  them  a  treat. 

After  tea,  during  which  Miss  Peck  and  the  little  seam- 
stress sustained  the  conversation  entirely  between  them,  Liz 
apparently  being  too  shy  or  too  reticent  to  utter  a  word,  the 
two  girls  went  out  for  a  walk.  In  their  absence,  to  the  great 
delight  of  Miss  Peck,  Gladys  arrived  home  in  a  dog-cart, 
hired  from  the  Mauchline  Hotel. 

You  have  something  to  tell  me,  haven't  you?"  cried 
Gladys,  eagerly,  as  she  kissed  her  old  friend.  "  The  girls 
have  arrived,  I  am  sure.  And  what  do  you  think  of  poor 
Lizzie?  Is  she  not  all  I  told  you?" 

"She  is  certainly  a  fine-looking  girl ;  but  she  has  said  so 
little  that  I  do  n't  know  any  thing  else  about  her." 

19 


290  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

.  "  But  you  have  been  very  kind  to  them,  I  hope.  I  want 
you  to  be  specially  kind  to  Lizzie.  I  am  afraid  she  has  had 
a  very  hard  time  of  it  lately,  and  she  is  not  strong." 

"  My  dear  " — Miss  Peck  laid  her  little  hand,  covered  with 
its  old-fashioned  rings,  on  the  arm  of  her  young  charge,  and 
her  kind  face  was  full  of  anxiety — "tell  me  why  she  has 
had  a  hard  time.  I  hope  she  is  a  good  girl,  Gladys.  You 
have  the  kindest  heart,  my  darling ;  but  you  must  look  after 
your  own  interests.  I  hope  she  has  given  you  quite  a  satis- 
factory account  of  herself." 

"  Dear  Miss  Peck,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  light  laugh,  "  she 
has  not  given  me  any  account  of  herself  at  all,  nor  have  I 
asked  it.  But  tell  me,  do  you  think  she  looks  like  a  wicked 
girl?" 

"  Well,  no,  not  exactly ;  but  I — I — have  had  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Fordyce  this  morning,"  said  the  little  spinster,  with  the 
most  unsophisticated  candor,  "  and,  really,  from  it  one  might 
think  your  new  protege  quite  an  objectionable  person." 

Gladys  looked  distinctly  annoyed.  She  had  a  very  sweet 
disposition,  but  was  a  trifle  touchy  regarding  her  own  inde- 
pendence. Sundry  rather  sharp  passages,  which  had  occurred 
between  Mrs.  Fordyce  and  herself  on  this  very  subject,  made 
her  now  readier  to  resent  this  new  interference. 

"  I  really  wish  Mrs.  Fordyce  would  mind  her  own  busi- 
ness," she  said,  and  that  was  such  a  very  harsh  sentence  to 
fall  from  the  lips  of  Gladjrs  that  Miss  Peck  looked  rather 
startled.  "  She  has  really  no  right  to  be  writing  letters  to 
you,  dictating  what  I  shall  do  in  my  own  house.  Do  you 
belong  to  me,  or  to  her,  I  wonder?" 

The  momentary  resentment  died  away  as  she  asked  this 
question  with  the  old  whimsical  smile. 

"  I  think  she  means  it  for  your  good,  dear,"  said  the  little 
spinster,  meekly.  "And  I  think,  in  some  particulars,  she  is 
right.  I  never  dictate  to  you,  and  for  that  reason  you  will 
listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  I  think  you  should  not 
make  too  much  of  these  girls  when  they  are  here.  Be  kind 


IN  VAIN.  291 

to  them,  of  course,  and  give  them  every  comfort,  but  let 
them  eat  alone  and  be  companions  to  each  other.  I  am  sure, 
dear,  that  would  make  them  much  happier,  and  be  better  for 
us  all." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  Gladys  asked,  with  all  the  docility 
of  a  child.  "  Very  well,  dear  Guardy,  I  will  do  as  you 
think.  But  where  are  they  now?  I  must  bid  them  welcome." 

"  They  have  gone  for  a  walk  to  the  Birchwood.  And  how 
have  you  been  since  you  went  up  town  ?  Have  you  been 
very  gay,  and  seen  a  great  deal  of  a  certain  gentleman?" 

"  No ;  I  saw  him  once  only,  and  we  did  not  agree,"  re- 
plied Gladys,  calmly.  "Do  you  know,  dear  Miss  Peck,  I 
think  it  was  the  greatest  mistake  for  us  to  get  engaged?  I 
do  n't  know  in  the  least  what  made  me  do  it.  and  I  wish  I 
hadn't." 

Miss  Peck  stood  aghast,  but  presently  smiled  in  a  re- 
lieved manner. 

"  O,  nonsense,  my  love — only  a  lover's  tiff;  when  it  blows 
over  you  will  be  happier  than  ever." 

"  I  do  n't  like  tiffs,"  Gladys  answered,  as  she  ran  up-stairs 
to  take  off  her  wraps.  The  lover's  tiff  seemed  to  be  rather  a 
serious  affair;  for  a  week  passed  away,  and  no  letter  came 
from  George ;  nor  did  Gladys  write  any.  She  felt  secretly 
wounded  over  it,  and  though  she  often  recalled  that  hour 
spent  in  the  library  at  Bellairs  Crescent,  she  could  not  re- 
member anything  which  seemed  to  justify  such  a  complete 
estrangement. 

!Never  since  she  came  to  Bourhill  had  so  long  a  time 
elapsed  without  communicating  with  one  or  other  of  the  For- 
dyce  family ;  but  as  the  days  went  by  and  they  made  no  sign, 
the  girl's  pride  rose,  and  she  told  herself  that  if  they  pleased 
to  take  offense  because  she  reserved  to  herself  the  right  to 
ask  whom  she  willed  to  her  own  house,  the}7  should  receive 
no  advances  from  her.  But  she  was  secretly  unhappy.  Her 
nature  craved  sunshine  and  peace,  and  the  conduct  of  her 
lover  she  could  not  possibly  understand. 


292  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

In  all  her  imaginings,  how  far  was  she  always  from  the 
truth !  She  did  not  dream  that  he  believed  his  death-knell 
had  been  rung,  and  that  he  attributed  her  silence  to  her 
righteous  and  inexorable  indignation  over  the  story  she  had 
heard  from  the  lips  of  Liz  Hepburn.  He  never  for  one  mo- 
ment doubted  that  she  had  told,  and  between  conscience  and 
disappointed  love  he  had  a  very  lively  week  of  it.  All  this 
time  none  could  have  been  more  discreet  and  reticent  than 
the  girl  who  was  the  cause  of  all  this  heart-burning.  Her 
behavior  was  exemplary.  She  was  docile,  courteous,  gentle 
in  demeanor  and  speech,  grateful  for  everything,  but  enthu- 
siastic over  nothing,  differing  in  this  respect  from  Teen,  who 
appeared  to  walk  on  air,  and  carried  her  exaltation  of  spirit 
in  her  look  and  tone. 

But  Liz  was  dull  and  silent,  content  to  walk  and  drive 
and  breathe  that  heavenly  air  which  ought  to  have  been  the 
very  elixir  of  life  to  her,  but  otherwise  appearing  lifeless  and 
xininterested.  Gladys  was  very  kind  and  even  tender  with 
her,  but  just  a  little  disappointed.  She  watched  her  keenly, 
not  knowing  that  all  the  while  Liz  was  in  turn  watching  her, 
and  at  last  she  breathed  a  hint  of  her  disappointment  into 
the  ear  of  the  little  seamstress. 

"  Do  you  think  Lizzie  is  enjoying  Bourhill,  Teen  ?  She 
looks  so  spiritless;  but  perhaps  it  is  her  health,  though  I 
think  her  looking  a  little  better  than  when  she  came." 

"It's  no  her  body;  it's  her  mind,"  said  Teen,  slowly. 
"  She  has  something  on  her  mind." 

"  Has  she  never  said  anything  yet  to  you  about  where 
she  was,  or  what  she  was  doing  all  the  time  she  was  lost?" 
asked  Gladys,  anxiously. 

"Naething,"  answered  Teen,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of 
her  head.  "  But  I  think  it 's  on  that  she  's  thinkin',  an' 
whiles  I  dinna  like  her  look." 

"  I  'm  going  to  speak  to  her  myself  about  it,  Teen.  Per- 
haps it  is  something  if  would  do  her  good  to  tell.  Like  you, 


IN  VAIN.  293 

I  am  often  struck  by  her  look,  it  is  so  dreadfully  sad.  Yes, 
I  shall  speak  to  her." 

The  little  seamstress  looked  hesitatingly  at  the  bright, 
radiant  face  of  Gladys,  and  it  was  upon  her  lips  to  say  it 
might  be  better  to  let  the  matter  rest.  But,  with  her  old 
philosophical  reflections  that  anything  she  might  say  could 
not  possibly  avert  the  march  of  fate,  she  held  her  peace. 
Just  after  lunch  that  afternoon,  as  Gladys  was  writing  some 
letters  in  her  favorite  window,  she  saw  Liz  sitting  by  herself 
in  the  drowsy  sunshine  on  the  lawn,  and  her  face  wore  such 
a  dejected,  melancholy  look,  that  it  was  evident  some  hidden 
sorrow  was  eating  into  her  heart.  Closing  her  desk,  Gladys 
ran  down-stairs,  caught  up  "a  garden-hat  from  the  hall,  and 
crossed  the  green  lawn  to  Liz. 

"  Dear  me,  how  doleful  you  look  !"  she  cried,  gayly.  "  How 
can  you  look  so  dreadfully  doleful  on  such  a  bright  day  ?  Now 
tell  me  every  simple,  solitary  thing  you  are  thinking."  A 
swift,  rather  startled  glance  crossed  Liz's  face,  and  she  gave 
rather  a  forced  laugh. 

"  That  wadna  be  easy.  I  do  n't  think  I  was  thinking 
onything,  except  a  meenit  syne  when  I  lookit  up  an'  wished 
I  was  that  laverock  in  the  lift." 

"  But  why?  It  is  much  nicer  to  be  a  girl,  I  think.  Tell 
me,  Lizzie,  do  n't  you  feel  stronger  since  you  came  here?  I 
think  you  look  it." 

"I'm  weel  enough,"  responded  Liz,  dully,  "an'  it's  a 
lovely  place — a  lovely  place.  I  '11  never  forget  it,  never  as 
long  as  I  live." 

It  was  the  first  note  of  enthusiasm  Gladys  had  heard  re- 
garding Bourhill,  and  it  pleased  her  well. 

"  I  hope  you  won't,  and  that  you  '11  come  often  to 
see  it." 

"  I  dinna  think  I  '11  ever  come  again  ;  it 's  no  likely.  How 
long  are  we  to  bide?" 

"As  long  as  you  like,"  answered  Gladys,  frankly.     "Till 


294  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

you  are  quite  strong,  anyhow.  Teen  is  in  no  hurry  to  go 
back  to  Glasgow — are  you  ?" 

"  Sometimes  it 's  very  quiet,"  said  Liz,  candidly. 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  return  ?" 

Liz.  shook  her  head,  but  her  lips  gave  forth  no  answer. 

"  I  hope  you  will  go  to  your  brother,  as  he  wished,"  said 
Gladys,  and  she  could  not  for  the  life  of  her  help  a  curious 
restraint  creeping  into  her  voice.  "  It  would  be  so  very 
nice  for  him  to  have  you.  It  is  dreadful  for  him  to  live  quite 
alone  as  he  does.  Why  won't  you  go?" 

"He  kens  what  way,"  replied  Liz,  quietly. 

Gladys  was  perplexed.  There  was  nothing  particularly 
encouraging  in  the  girl's  look  or  manner ;  but  she  thought 
the  time  had  come  to  put  the  question,  which  had  so  often 
trembled  on  her  lips.  It  was  a  proof  of  Gladys  Graham's  fine 
and  delicate  nature  that  she  had  not  ere  this  sought  to  pi'obe 
into  Liz  Hepburn's  secret,  if  she  had  one. 

u  Lizzie,"  she  said,  gently,  "  I  hope  you  won't  be  angry 
at  what  I  say ;  but  often  looking  at  you,  I  see  that  you  are 
unhappy.  I  have  never  sought  to  pry  into  your  concerns  ; 
but  perhaps  if  you  were  to  tell  me  something  about  yourself 
you  would  feel  more  at  rest." 

"  D'ye  think  sae?"  she  asked,  with  a  faint,  ironical  smile, 
which  Gladys  did  not  like.  "  If  it  eased  me,  it  micht  keep 
you  frae  sleepin'.  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  no 
haeing  pestered  me  wi'  questions.  I  dinna  ken  anither  body 
in  the  world  but  Teen  that  wad  hae  treated  me  as  you  have. 
But  my  life  's  my  ain,  an'  if  I  suffer,  I  'm  no  askin'  pity.  I 
can  bear  the  brunt  o'  what  I  've  brocht  on  mysel'." 

It  was  a  flat  repulse ;  but  it  was  gently  spoken,  and  did 
not  vex  the  sensitive  soul  of  Gladys. 

"Very  well,  Liz,"  she  said,  kindly,  "  I'll  never  ask  any 
more ;  but  remember  that  if  I  can  help  you  at  any  time  I  am 
ready,  always  ready,  for  your  sake  and  for  Walter's." 

"  He  worships  the  very  ground  you  walk  on,"  said  Liz, 
calmly.  "  1  wonder  what  way  him  an'  me  was  born.  Is  't 


IN  VAIN. 


295 


true  ye  are  gaun  to  be  married  to  Fordyce  of'  Gorbals 
Mill?" 

As  she  asked  this  direct  question,  she  flashed  her  brill- 
iant eyes  full  on  the  girl's  sweet  face. 

"  I  suppose  I  am,  some  time,''  Gladys  answered,  rather 
confusedly.  "  At  least  I  have  promised." 

"Ay,"  said  Liz.  "  But  there  's  mony  a  slip  atween  the 
cup  an'  the  lip ;  and  in  time,  they  say,  a'  body  gets  their  de- 
serts, even  here. 

With  this  enigmatical  speech,  Liz  got  up  and  crossed  the 
lawn  with  averted  face,  Gladys  looking  after  her  with  a  puz- 
zled wonder  in  her  eyes,  thinking  she  was  certainly  a  very 
strange  girl,  and  that  it  was  hopeless  to  try  to  make  any- 
thing out  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

GONE. 

0  WARDS  the  end  of  the  second  week  Liz?  be. 
gan  to  exhibit  certain  signs  of  restlessness,  which 
ought  to  have  warned  those  concerned  in  her 
w-elfare  that  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  Bourhill 
were  beginning  to  pall  upon  her.  As  she  improved  in  her 
bodily  health  her  mind  became  more  active,  and  she  began 
to  pine  for  something  more  exciting  than  country  walks  and 
drives.  They  were  not  altogether  unobservant  of  the  grow- 
ing change  in  her,  of  course,  but  attributed  it  to  a  returning 
and  healthful  interest  in  the  simpler  pleasures  of  life.  All 
this  time  George  Fordyce  had  not  come  to  Bourhill,  nor  had 
any  letters  passed  between  him  and  his  promised  wife. 

It  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  Gladys  was  quite  indif- 
ferent to  this ;  if  her  feelings  were  not  very  deeply  involved, 
her  pride  was  touched,  and  the  first  advances  were  not  at  all 
likely  to  emanate  from  her.  Liz  had  lived  in  secret  dread, 
mingled  with  a  kind  of  happy  anticipation,  of  meeting 
George  Fordyce  at  Bourhill ;  and  as  the  days  went  by,  and 
there  was  no  sign  or  talk  of  his  coming,  she  began  to  won- 
der very  much  what  it  all  meant.  She  was  a  remarkably 
shrewd  person,  and  it  did  occur  to  her  to  connect  her  visit 
296 


GONE.  297 

and  the  absence  of  Miss  Graham's  lover.  One  day,  however, 
she  put  a  question  to  Teen  as  they  sauntered  through  the 
spring  woods  on  the  hill  behind  the  house. 

"  I  say — is  't  true  that  she  is  gaun  to  marry  Fordyce, 
Teen  ?  It 's  no  like  it.  What  way  does  he  never  look  near?" 

Teen  looked  keenly  into  her  companion's  face,  to  which 
that  fortnight  of  complete  rest  and  generous  living  had  re- 
stored the  bloom  of  health.  Without  planning  very  much, 
or  artfully  seeking  to  mislead  the  little  seamstress,  Liz  had 
thrown  her  entirely  off  the  scent.  Such  careless  mention  of 
her  old  lover's  name,  and  her  apparent  indifference  as  to 
whether  they  should  or  should  not  meet  at  Bourhill,  had  en- 
tirely convinced  Teen  that  he  had  no  share  in  that  part  of 
Liz's  life  which  she  had  elected  to  keep  a  sealed  book. 

"  It 's  quite  true  that  they  are  engaged,"  she  replied,  tran- 
quilly. "  But  maybe  he  's  awa'  frae  hame ;  but  nane  o'  them 
have  been  here  for  a  long  time." 

"  She  disna  seem  to  be  much  in  earnest,"  put  in  Liz,  flatly. 
"  I  dinna  believe  mysel'  that  she  cares  a  button  for  ony  o'  the 
lot;  do  you?" 

"I  dinna  ken,"  answered  Teen,  truthfully.  "It  disna 
inaitter  to  us,  onyway." 

"  Maybe  no.  Let 's  sit  down  here  a  meenit,  Teen,  the 
sun  's  fine  an'  warm,"  said  Liz,  and  plumped  down  among 
the  bracken,  while  Teen  stood  still  under  the  jagged  branches 
of  an  old  fir-tree,  and  looked  "her  fill,"  as  she  expressed  it, 
of  the  lovely  world  at  her  feet.  It  was  still  a  spring  woi'ld, 
clothed  in  a  most  delicate  and  exquisite  garb  of  green,  wait- 
ing only  for  the  touch  of  later  summer  to  give  it  a  deeper 
hue.  There  were  many  touches  of  white  and  pink  bloom, 
showing  in  exquisite  contrast  where  the  hawthorn  and  the 
bean  were  in  flower.  Nor  was  the  ground  left  with  its  more 
somber  hues  unrelieved ;  the  blue  hyacinth,  the  delicate  anem- 
one, the  cowslip,  and  the  primrose  grew  thickly  on  every 
bare  hill-side  and  in  all  the  little  valleys,  making  the  air 
heavy  with  their  rich  perfume. 


298  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

And  all  the  fields  now  made  glad  the  hearts  of  those  who 
had  in  faith  dropped  their  seed  into  the  brown  soil,  and  the 
whole  earth,  down  to  the  sun-kissed  edge  of  the  sea,  rejoiced 
with  a  great  joy.  ?Tor  was  the  sea  less  lovely,  with  the 
silvery  sheen  of  early  summer-tide  on  its  placid  bosom,  and 
the  white  wings  of  many  boats  glistening  in  the  sun. 

"It's  just  like  heaven,  Liz,"  said  the  little  seamstress,  to 
whom  these  things  were  a  great  wonder,  revealing  to  her  a 
depth  and  meaning  in  life  of  which  she  had  not  before 
dreamed.  But  to  these  hidden  lovelinesses  of  nature  the 
eyes  of  Liz  were  closed.  Her  vision,  being  too  much  turned 
in  upon  herself,  was  dimmed  to  much  that  would  have  made 
her  a  happier  and  better  girl. 

"  It  'a  bonnie  enough ;  but  0,  it  gets  stale,  Teen,  after  a 
wee !  If  I  were  as  rich  as  her  I  wadna  bide  here  ;  no,  if  they 
paid  me  to  bide!" 

"  What  for  no  ?" 

"O,  it's  that  flat!  Naething  ever  happens.  Grie  me  the 
toon,  I  say;  there  's  some  life  there,  onyway." 

"  I  wadna  care  if  I  never  saw  the  toon  again,"  said  Teen, 
gravely,  for  her  friend's  words  troubled  her. 

"  Hoo  lang  d'ye,  mean  to  bide  here,  Teen  ?"  queried  Liz, 
presently.  "  It  '11  be  a  fortnicht  the  morn  since  we  cam'." 

Teen  did  not  at  once  reply.  She  had  not  dared  to  count 
the  days,  grudging  their  sweet  passing;  and  it  jarred  upon 
her  to  hear  Liz  state  the  exact  period,  as  if  it  had  appeared 
to  her  very  long. 

"  This  is  the  nineteenth  ;  it  was  the  twenty-third,  was  n't 
it,  that  Mrs.  Gordon  said  she  was  leavin'  Glesca?" 

I  've  forgotten.  Yes,  I  believe  it  was  the  nineteenth," 
answered  Teen,  listlessly,  not  being  interested  in  the 
time. 

"My,  she'll  see  a  lot  gaun  to  Ireland  with  a  regiment. 
It 's  a  lively  life.  I  wish  I  was  her." 

Teen  turned  sharply  'round,  and  looked  with  reproachful 
eyes  into  her  companion's  face. 


GONE.  299 

"  I  thocht  ye  was  glad  to  get  away  from  her,  Liz.  I 
dinna  ken  what  ye  mean." 

"  O,  I  was  doon  in  the  mooth,  because  I  wasna  weel !"  said 
Liz,  lightly.  "  Seriously,  though,  how  long  are  ye  gaun  to 
bide  doon  here,  Teen  ?" 

"  I  wad  bide  aye  if  I  had  the  chance ;  but  I  suppose  we 
canna  bide  very  much  longer.  Maybe  we  'd  better  see  what 
Miss  Gladys  says." 

"Ay,  I  suppose  sae,"  said  Liz,  a  trifle  dryly.  "  Whatever 
you  may  think,  I  dinna  think  it 's  fair  that  she  should  hae 
so  much  an'  you  an'  me  sae  little.  We  're  livin'  on  her 
charity,  Teen." 

"Yes,  but  she  disna  mak'  ye  feel  it,"  retorted  Teen, 
quickly.  "An'  she  disna  think  it  charity,  either.  She  says 
aye  the  money's  no  hers;  she  has  just  gotten  a  len'  o't  to 
gie  to  ither  folk." 

"Wad  she  gie  me  a  thoosand,  d'ye  think,  if  I  were  to 
speir?"  asked  Liz,  and  Teen  looked  vexed  at  these  idle  words. 
She  did  not  like  the  sarcastic,  flippant  mood,  and  she  re- 
garded Liz  with  strong  disapproval  and  vague  uneasiness  in 
her  glance. 

"I  dinna  like  the  way  ye  speak,  Liz,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"  But,  I  say,  if  ye  were  in  Glesca  the  noo,  what  wad  ye  dae?" 

" Dae !  it 's  what  wad  I  no  dae,"  cried  Liz.  "I'm  no  the 
kind  to  sterve." 

"  Ye  wasna  very  weel  aff  when  we  got  ye,"  Teen  could 
not  refrain  from  saying. 

"  O,  ye  needna  cast  up  what  ye  did.  I  never  asked  you, 
onyway.  Ye  ken  you  and  Wat  hauled  me  awa'  wi'  you 
against  my  wull,"  said  Liz,  rather  angrily,  being  in  a  mood 
to  cavil  at  trifles.  "  I  kent  hoo  it  wad  be ;  but  I  '11  take  jolly 
guid  care  ye  dinna  get  anither  chance  o'  castin'  up  onything 
o'  the  sort  to  me." 

Teen  ramained  silent,  not  that  she  was  particularly  hurt 
by  that  special  remark,  but  that  she  was  saddened  and  per- 
plexed by  the  whole  situation.  She  had  sustained  another 


300  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

fearful  disappointment,  and  she  saw  that  Bourhill  had  utterly 
failed  to  make  the  charm  on  Liz  which  Teen  herself  ex- 
perienced more  and  more  every  day.  If  she  were  not  alto- 
gether blind  to  its  loveliness,  at  least  it  did  not  touch  any 
deeper  feeling  than  mere  eye-pleasure ;  but  more  serious  and 
disappointing  still  was  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke  of  Gladys. 
In  her  weak  and  weary  state  of  health,  she  had  at  first 
appeared  touched  and  grateful  for  the  unceasing  kindness 
and  consideration  heaped  upon  her ;  but  that  mood  had  passed 
apparently  forever,  and  now  she  appeared  rather  to  chafe 
under  obligations  which  Teen  felt  also,  though  in  a  different 
way,  love  having  made  them  sweet. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  herself  shrinking 
inwardly  from  the  friend  she  had  always  loved  since  the  days 
when  they  had  played  together,  ragged,  unkempt  little  girls, 
in  the  city  streets.  She  looked  at  the  brilliant  beauty  of  her 
face.  She  saw  it  marred  by  a  certain  hardness  of  expression — 
a  selfish,  discontented  look,  which  can  rob  the  beauty  from 
the  loveliest  face — and  her  heart  sank  within  her,  because  she 
seemed  dimly  to  foresee  the  end.  The  little  seamstress  did 
not  know  the  meaning  of  the  lost  ideal — the  probability  is 
that  she  had  never  heard  the  word — but  she  felt  all  of  a  sud- 
den, standing  there  in  the  May  sunshine,  that  something  had 
gone  out  of  her  life  forever.  That  very  night  she  spoke  to 
Gladys,  seizing  a  favorable  opportunity  when  Liz  had  gone 
to  enjoy  a  gossip  with  that  garrulous  person,  Mrs.  Macintyre, 
at  the  lodge. 

"  I  say,  Miss  Gladys,  hae  ye  noticed  onything  aboot  Liz 
this  day  or  twa?"  she  queried,  anxiously. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Gladys,  blithely,  "except  that  she 
looks  more  and  more  like  a  new  creature.  Have  you  noticed 
anything?" 

"  Naething  very  particular ;  but  I  am  feared  that  she 's 
wearyin'  here,  an'  that  she  wants  to  get  away  back  to 
Glesca,"  said  Teen,  with  a  slight  hesitation,  it  must  be  told, 


GONE.  301 

since  such  an  insinuation  appeared  to  savor  of  the  deepest 
ingratitude. 

"0,  do  you  think  so?  I  thought  she  was  quite  happy. 
She  certainly  looks  much  brighther  and  better,  and  feels  so, 
I  hope." 

"  O  yes,  she  's  better;  that's  the  reason,  1  suppose.  She 
was  aye  active  an'  energetic,  Liz,"  said  Teen,  feeling  im- 
pelled to  make  some  kind  of  an  excuse  for  her  old  chum. 
"  We  've  been  here  twa  weeks ;  maybe  it 's  time  we  left." 

"0  nonsense!  What  is  two  weeks?  Suppose  you  staid 
here  all  summer,  what  would  it  be?  . Nothing  at  all.  But 
what  do  you  think  Lizzie  has  in  her  mind?  Has  she  any- 
thing in  view  in  Glasgow  ?" 

"  They  'd  be  clever  that  fathomed  her  mind ;  it 's  as  deep 
as  the  sea,"  said  Teen,  with  an  involuntary  touch  of  bitter- 
ness;  for  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  her  faithful  love  and 
service  had  met  with  but  a  poor  return. 

"  She  can't  think  we  will  allow  her  to  go  back  to  Glas- 
gow without  knowing  what  she  is  going  to  do.  We  had  too 
much  anxiety  on  her  account  before,"  said  Gladys,  with  de- 
cision. "  There  is  no  doubt  her  brother's  house  is  the  place 
for  her.  I  must  talk  to  her  myself." 

"  Dinna  dae't  the  nicht,  Miss  Gladys,  or  she  '11  think  I  've 
been  teHin'  on  her,"  suggested  the  little  seamstress.  "  Liz  is 
very  touchy  about  a  lot  o'  things." 

"  Well,  perhaps  a  better  plan  would  be  to  write  to  Walter 
to  come  down  and  see  her,"  said  Gladys,  thoughtfully.  "  Yes, 
I  shall  just  do  that.  How  pleased  he  will  be  to  see  her  look- 
ing so  well !  Perhaps  he  will  be  able  to  persuade  her  to  go 
to  housekeeping  with  him  now ;  and  in  that  case,  Teen,  you 
will  stay  on  here.  Miss  Peck  says  she  can't  do  without  you 
anyhow.  You  are  such  an  invaluable  help  with  sewing  and 
all  sorts  of  things.  Perhaps  we  could  make  a  permanent  ar- 
rangement— at  least,  which  will  last  till  I  get  my  scheme  for 
the  girl's  club  all  arranged.  I  must  say  it  does  not  progress 


302  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

very  fast,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh.  "  We  always  do  so  much 
less  than  we  expect  and  intend,  and  will,  I  suppose,  fall  short 
to  the  very  end.  If  you  like  to  stay  here,  Teen,  as  sewing- 
maid,  or  anything  else  to  Miss  Peck,  it  will  make  me  very 
happy." 

She  regarded  the  little  seamstress  with  a  lovely  kindness 
in  her  look,  and  what  could  poor  Teen  do  but  burst  into 
happy  tears,  having  no  words  wherein  to  express  a  tithe  of 
what  she  felt  ? 

No  further  allusion  was  made  that  night  to  the  question 
of  the  girls  leaving,  and  all  retired  to  rest  as  usual  in  the 
house  of  Bourhill.  In  the  night,  however,  just  when  the 
faint  streaks  of  the  summer  dawn  were  visible  in  the  sum- 
mer sky,  Liz  Hepburn  rose  very  softly  from  the  side  of  the 
sleeping  Teen,  and,  gathering  her  things  together  in  an  un- 
tidy bundle,  stole  out  of  the  room  and  down-stairs. 

The  Scotch  terrier,  asleep  on  his  mat  at  the  foot  of  the 
stair,  only  looked  up  sleepily,  and  wagged  his  tail  as  she 
stepped  over  him  and  stole  softly  through  the  hall.  The 
well-oiled  bolts  slipped  back  noiselessly,  and  she  ran  out 
down  the  steps,  leaving  the  door  wide  to  the  wall. 

And  so  they  found  it  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  just 
when  Liz  was  stepping  into  the  first  train  at  a  wayside  sta- 
tion many  miles  from  Bourhill. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MATRON'S  ADVICE. 

THINK  we  had  better  go  down  and  see  what 
Gladys   is    about,"    said    Mrs.    Fordyce,  at   the 
breakfast-table.     "  Could  you  go  down  with  me 
this  afternoon,  Tom  ?" 
"I   daresay    I   could,'1  replied  the  lawyer.     "Surely,  we 
have  n't  heard  anj'thing  about  her  for  a  long  time." 

"  I  should  just  think  we  hud  n't,"  said  Mina,  with  energy. 
"  Perhaps  by  this  time  she  has  gone  off  with  soinebody. 
We  Ve  shamefully  neglected  her." 

"  George  has  n't  been  down  either,  Julia  told  me  yester- 
day,'' said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  thoughtfully.  "  There  must  have 
been  a  quarrel,  girls.  Did  Gladys  sa\"  anything  more  before 
she  went  away  that  day?" 

"Nothing;  but  they  are  both  so  proud,  neither  will  give 
in  first.  I  certainly  do  n't  think,  mother,  that  Gladys's  feel- 
ings are  very  seriously  involved.  She  takes  the  whole  thing 
very  calmly." 

"  George  should  not  be  too  high  and  mighty  at  this  early 
stage,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce.  "He  will  find  that 
Gladys  has  a  mind  of  her  own.  and  will  not  be  dictated  to. 

303 


304  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

All  the  same,"  she  added,  with  a  faint  sigh,  "  I  admit  that  he 
was  right  to  find  fault  with  her  having  those  girls  at  Bour- 
hill.  Tom,  dear,  I  really  think  it  is  your  duty  as  guardian 
to  interfere." 

"  We  can  go  down  anyhow  and  see  what  she  is  ahout," 
replied  the  lawyer ;  and  that  afternoon,  accordingly,  they 
went  out  to  Mauchline.  Not  being  expected,  they  had  to 
hire  from  the  hotel,  and  arrived  just  as  Gladys  and  Miss 
Peck  were  enjoying  their  afternoon  tea.  She  was  un- 
feignedly  glad  to  see  them,  and  showed  it  in  the  very  hearti- 
ness of  her  welcome.  It  was  somewhat  of  a  relief  to  Mrs. 
Fordyce  to  find  Gladys  alone  with  Miss  Peck.  She  had 
quite  expected  to  meet  the  objectionable  girls  in  the  drawing- 
room  ;  but  there  were  no  evidences  of  their  presence  in  the 
house  at  all,  nor  did  Gladys  allude  to  them  in  any  way. 

She  had  a  thousand  and  one  questions  to  ask  about  them 
all,  and  appeared  so  affectionately  interested  in  everything 
pertaining  to  the  family,  that  Mr.  Fordyce  could  not  forbear 
casting  a  rather  triumphant  glance  at  his  wife. 

"As  the  mountain  would  not  come  to  Mahomet,  Mahomet 
has  come  to  the  mountain,"  he  said,  in  his  good-natured  way. 
"  You  should  have  heard  the  doleful  conversation  about  you 
at  breakfast  this  morning.  Were  your  ears  not  ringing?" 

"  No,  I  had  something  more  serious  to  take  up  my  atten- 
tion," said  Gladys,  a  trifle  soberly.  "  I  hope  you  have  come 
to  stay  a  few  days — until  to-morrow,  at  least." 

"Are  all  your  other  guests  away  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
with  the  faintest  trace  of  hardness  in  her  voice. 

"  Christina  Balfour  is  here  still.  Her  companion  left  this 
morning,  rather  suddenly,"  said  Gladys,  and  it  was  evident 
that  she  felt  rather  distressed.  "  In  fact,  she  ran  away  from 
Bourhill." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fordyce,  in  astonishment. 
"Why  should  she  have  run  away?  It  would  have  been 
quite  sufficient,  surely,  for  her  to  have  said  she  wished  to  re- 


THE  MA  TR  ON'S  A  D  VICE.  30o 

turn  to  Glasgow.  You  were  not  keeping  her  hero  against 
her  will,  I  presume?" 

"  No,"  replied  Gladys,  a  trifle  unsteadily.  "  i  can  not  say 
she  has  ti-eated  us  well.  It  was  a  very  silly  as  well  as  a  wrong 
proceeding  to  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  leave 
the  door  wide  open  as  she  did.  She  has  disappointed  me 
very  much." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  looked  at  Gladys  in  a  kind  of  wonder.  Her 
candor  and  her  justness  were  as  conspicuous  as  her  decision 
of  character.  It  evidently  cost  her  pride  no  effort  to  admit 
that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  though  the  admission  was  proof 
of  the  correct  prophecy  made  by  Mrs.  Fordyce  when  the  hot 
words  had  passed  between  them  concerning  Liz  at  Bellairs 
Crescent.  Mrs.  Fordyce,  however,  was  generous  enough  to 
abstain  from  undue  triumph. 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  we  all  make  mistakes,  though  we 
do  n't  all  admit  so  readily  as  you  have  done  that  they  are 
mistakes,"  she  said,  good-humoredly.  "I  suppose  the  girl 
felt  the  restraint  of  this  quiet  life  too  much.  What  was  her 
occupation  before  she  came  down?  I  don't  know  that  I 
heard  anything  about  her." 

"  She  was  once  a  mill-girl  with  Mr.  Fordyce,"  answered 
Gladys.  "  She  is  the  girl  who  disappeared,  do  n't  you  re- 
member?— Walter  Hepburn's  sister." 

"0!" 

The  lawyer  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  she  has  disappeared  again.  I 
did  not  know  that  was  the  girl  all  the  talk  was  about.  Well, 
are  you  not  tired  of  this  quiet  life  yet?"  ! 

"  O  no ;  I  like  it  very  much.  But  when  will  you  allow  the 
girls  to  come  down,  Mrs.  Fordyce?  I  think  it  is  too  bad 
that  they  have  never  yet  paid  me  a  proper  visit  at  Bourhill." 

"  They  are  talking  of  London  again ;  wheedling  their 
poor,  dear  papa,  as  they  do  every  May.  I  think  you  must 
go  with  us  again,  my  dear." 


306  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  that,"  replied  Gladys,  with  brighten- 
ing face,  and  Mrs.  Fordyce  perceived  that  she  had  sustained 
a  very  severe  disappointment,  which  had  made  her  for  the 
time  being  a  trifle  discontented  with  her  own  fair  lot. 

She  took  an  early  opportunity,  when  Gladys  conducted 
her  to  the  guest-chamber,  to  put  another  question  to  her : 

<(  Gladys,  how  long  is  it  since  George  was  here?" 

"  I  have  never  seen  him  since  that  night  in  your  house 
when  he  didn't  come  up  to  the  drawing-room,"  answered 
Gladys,  calmly. 

"But  he  has  written,  I  suppose?" 

"No;  nor  have  1." 

"  My  dear  girl,  this  is  very  serious,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
gravely.  "  What  was  the  difference  about?  You  will  tell 
me,  my  dear.  I  have  your  best  interests  at  heart,  but  I  can 
not  help  thinking  it  is  rather  soon  to  disagree." 

"  I  don't  think  we  disagreed,  only  I  said  I  should  ask 
whom  I  liked  to  Bourhill.  Surely  that  was  within  my 
rights,"  said  Gladys,  proudly. 

"  0  yes,  to  a  certain  degree,  but  not  when  you  harbor 
questionable  characters — yes,  I  repeat  it,  questionable  char- 
acters— such  as  the  girl  who  ran  off  this  morning.  I  hope 
you  counted  your  spoons  to-day,  Gladys?" 

Gladys  could  have  laughed,  only  she  was  too  miserable. 

"  O,  what  absurd  mistakes  you  make !"   was  all  she  said. 

"Not  so  very  absurd,  I  think.  Well,  as  I  said,  I  think 
George  only  showed  that  he  had  a  proper  regard  for  you  and 
your  peculiar  position  here.  We  know  the  world,  my  love ; 
you  do  not.  I  think,  now,  surely  you  will  allow  us  to  be  the 
judges  of  what  is  best  for  you." 

"  I  think  he  has  behaved  shamefully  to  me,  not  having 
come  or  even  written  for  so  long,  and  I  don  't  think  1  can 
forgive  him.  Think,  if  he  were  to  treat  me  so  after  I  wras 
his  wife,  how  dreadful  it  would  be !  It  would  certainly  break 
my  heart." 

"  Mj  dear,  the  cases  are  not  parallel.     When  you  are  his 


THE  MA  TR OS'S  A D  VICE.  307 

wife  your  interests  will  be  identical,  and  there  never  will  be 
any  dispute." 

Gladys  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  feel  at  all  sure  of 
any  such  thins;. 

"  I  can  not  help  thinking,  my  dear  child,  that  the  sooner 
you  are  married  the  better  it  will  be  for  you.  You  are  too 
much  isolated  here;  and  that  Miss  Peck,  good  little  woman 
though  she  is,  is  only  an  old  sheep.  I  must  forever  regret 
the  circumstances  which  prevented  Madame  Bonnemain 
coming  to  Bourhill." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  felt  the  above  conversation  to  be  so  unsatis- 
factory that  she  occupied  herself  before  dinner  in  writing  a 
letter  to  her  nephew,  in  which  she  treated  him  to  some  very 
plain  speaking,  and  pointed  out  that  unless  he  made  haste  to 
atone  for  past  shortcomings,  his  chance  of  winning  the  heir- 
ess of  Bourhill  was  not  worth  very  much. 

This  letter  reached  the  offender  when  he  was  seated  at  his 
lather's  breakfast-table  with  the  other  members  of  the  family, 
lie  slipped  it  into  his  pocket;  and  his  mother,  keenly  watch- 
ing him.  observed  a  curious  look — halt-surprise,  half-relief1 — 
on  his  face.  She  was  not  therefore  in  the  least  surprised  when 
he  came  to  her  immediately  after  breakfast  for  a  moment's 
private  conversation. 

"  I  've  had  a  letter  from  Aunt  Isabel,  written  at  Bourhill 
last  night ;  you  can  read  it  if  3*ou  like."  She  took  it  from 
him  eagerly,  and  perused  it  with  intense  interest,  Like  her 
son,  she  had  i-eally  abandoned  hope,  and  had  accepted  the 
silence  of  Gladys  as  her  lover's  final  dismissal. 

"This  is  extraordinary,  George!"  she  said,  excitedly. 
'••  The  girl  has  been  there,  and  gone,  evidently,  and  never 
uttered  a  word.  Can  you  believe  it?" 

"I  must.  Gladys  would  not  be  fretting  as  Aunt  Isabel 
says  she  is,  if  she  knew  all  that.  What  shall  I  do?" 

His  mother  thought  a  moment.  She  had  been  very  un- 
happy during  the  last  two  weeks,  dail}"  dreading  the  revela- 
tion of  the  miserable  story  which  would  make  her  idolized 


308  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

boy  the  center  of  au  unpleasant  scandal.  Her  relief  was  al- 
most too  great,  and  it  was  a  few  minutes  before  she  could 
collect  her  thoughts,  and  gather  up  the  scattered  threads  of 
her  former  ambition. 

"  You  may  have  a  chance  yet.  It  is  a  slender  one ;  but 
still  I  advise  you  to  make  instant  use  of  it.  Go  down  and 
make  it  up  with  Gladys,  at  any  cost.  If  she  has  heard 
nothing,  and  is  at  all  pliable,  press  for  an  early  marriage." 

She  gave  the  advice  in  all  good  faith,  and  without  a 
thought  of  the  great  moral  wrong  she  was  committing.  The 
supreme  selfishness  of  her  motherly  idolatry  blinded  her  to 
the  cruel  injustice  she  was  meting  out  to  the  innocent  girl 
whose  heritage  she  coveted  for  her  son.  Yet  she  counted 
herself  a  Christian  woman,  and  would  have  had  nothing  but 
indignant  scorn  for  the  individual  who  might  presume  to 
question  her  right  to  such  a  title. 

This  is  no  solitary  or  exceptional  case.  Such  things  are 
done  daily,  and  religion  is  made  the  cloak  to  cover  a  multi- 
tude of  sins.  Mrs.  Fordyce  had  so  long  striven  to  serve  both 
God  and  mammon  that  she  had  lost  the  fine  faculty  which 
can  discern  the  dividing  line.  In  other  words,  her  con- 
science was  dead,  and  allowed  her  to  give  this  deplorable  ad- 
vice without  a  dissenting  word. 

"It  would  be  very  awkward,"  said  the  amiable  George, 
"if  anything  were  to  come  out  after." 

"After  marriage,  you  mean.  O,  there  would  be  a  scene — 
a  few  hysterics,  perhaps — and  there  the  matter  would  be  at 
an  end.  A  wife  can't  afford  to  be  so  punctilious  as  a  maiden, 
fancy  free.  She  has  herself  too  much  to  lose." 

George  accepted  the  maternal  advice,  and  went  out  to 
Mauchline  after  business  hours  that  very  day. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A.  GREAT  RELIEF. 

IEXT  afternoon  Gladys  herself  drove  the  lawyer 
and  his  wife  from  Bourhill  to  the  station. 

"  Xow,  my  dear,''  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  as  they 
were  about  to  part,  "  I  shall  allow  the  girls  to 
come  down  on  Saturday,  on  condition  that  you 
return  with  them  at  the  end  of  a  week,  prepared  to  accom- 
pany us  to  London." 

Gladys  nodded  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  do  everything  yon  wish.  I  believe  1  am 
rather  tired  of  having  my  own  way,  and  I  should  not  mind 
having  a  change  even  from  Bourhill." 

As  they  stood  lingering  a  little  over  their  good-byes,  a 
train  from  Glasgow  came  puffing  into  the  station,  and,  with 
a  sudden  gleam  of  expectation,  Mrs.  Fordyce  glanced  anx- 
iously at  the  alighting  passengers. 

"My  dear,  why,  there  is  George,  actually — George 
himself!" 

Gladys  cast  a  startled  glance  in  the  direction  indicated, 
and  the  color  mounted  high  to  her  brow,  then  faded  quite, 
leaving  her  rather  strikingly  pale. 

309 


310  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Why  does  he  coine  here?"  she  asked,  quickly.  "  I  have 
not  asked  him." 

"Unless  you  have  broken  off  }~our  engagement  with  him, 
Gladys,  he  has  a  right  to  come  whether  you  ask  him  or  not. 
Tom,  dear,  here  is  our  train  now,  and  we  must  run  over 
that  bridge.  We  dare  not  miss  it,  I  suppose." 

"  I  daren't,  seeing  I  have  to  take  the  chair  at  a  dinner  in 
the  Windsor  Hotel  to-night,''  replied  the  lawyer.  "But  it 
you  like  to  remain  a  little  longer,  why  not,  Isabel?" 

Mrs.  Fordyce  hesitated  a  moment.  Her  nephew  was 
giving  up  his  ticket  to  the  collector  at  the  little  gate,  and 
their  train  was  impatiently  snorting  at  the  opposite  plat- 
form. •  ; 

"  I  had  better  go,"  she  decided  quickly,  as  her  husband 
began  to  run  off.  Turning  to  Gladys,  she  gave  her  a  hasty 
kiss,  and  observed,  seriously : 

"  Be  kind  to  poor  George,  Gladys.  He  is  very  fond  of 
you,  and  you  can  make  anj-thing  of  him  you  like.  Write  to 
me,  like  a  dear,  this  evening  after  he  is  away." 

She  would  have  liked  a  word  in  her  nephew's  private 
ear  also,  but  time  forbade  it.  She  waved  her  hand  to  him 
from  the  steps  of  the  bridge,  but  he  was  so  occupied  looking 
at  Gladys  that  he  did  not  return  her  salutation.  Gladys 
stepped  composedly  into  the  phaeton,  and,  sitting  up  in 
rather  a  dignified  way,  accorded  him  a  very  calm,  cool  greet- 
ing. His  demeanor  was  significant  of  a  slight  nervousness 
as  he  approached  the  carriage,  not  at  all  sure  of  his  ground. 

"  I  am  in  luck,  Gladys,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  with  a 
natural  gayety.  "  Have  I  your  permission  to  take  a  seat 
beside  you?" 

"If you  are  going  to  Bourhill,  of  course  you  may,"  she 
replied,  quite  calmly;  then,  turning  to  the  groom,  she  said, 
without  any  hesitation  :  "  You  can  walk  home,  William.  Put 
my  letters  in  at  the  post  as  you  pass,  and  bring  me  five 
shillings'  worth  of  stamps." 

The  groom  touched  his  hat,  took  the  money  and  the  let- 


A  ORE  A  T  RELIEF.  3 1 1 

ters,  and  walked  off,  indulging  in  a  grin  when  his  face  was 
turned  away  from  the  occupants  of  the  carriage. 

"  Shall  I  take  the  reins,  Gladys?''  inquired  George,  with 
a  very  bright  look  on  his  face.  He  perceived  that,  though 
there  might  be  "  rows,"  as  he  mentally  expressed  it,  they 
would  be  of  a  mild  nature,  easily  explained.  The  bolt  had  not 
fallen,  if  anything  was  to  be  gathered  from  her  demeanor. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  dislike  sitting  idle  in  a  carriage.  I 
always  drive  myself/' she  said,  calmly;  and,  with  a  rather 
tighter  hand  than  usual  on  the  reins,  she  turned  the  ponies' 
heads,  and  even  gave  each  .a  sharp  flick  with  the  whip,  which 
sent  them  up  the  leafy  road  at  a  very  smart  space. 

"  I  have  come  to  make  my  peace,  Gladys,  and  it 's  awfully 
good  of  you  to  send  the  fellow  away,"  George  began,  im- 
pressively. "  I'm  in  luck,  I  tell  you.  I  pictured  to  myself 
a  long,  dusty  walk  through  the  sunshine." 

"  I  sent  him  away  because  we  had  a  long  drive  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  wanted  Castor  and  Pollux  to  have  an  easier  load 
to  pull  up  the  hill,"  she  replied.  "  I  suppose  if  I  had  al- 
lowed you  to  walk  instead  of  William,  it  would  have  been 
rather  rude." 

Her  manner,  though  very  calm  and  unruffled,  was  rather 
unpromising.  George  looked  at  her  a  trifle  anxiously,  as  if 
hardly  sure  how  to  proceed. 

"Are  you  awfully  angry  with  me,  GIad}Ts?  I  always  ex- 
pected a  letter  from  you.  I  thought  you  were  so  angry 
with  me  that  I  was  afraid  to  write." 

"  You  were  quite  wrong,  then.  I  was  not  angry  at  all. 
But  why  should  I  have  written  when  you  did  not?" 

This  was  rather  unanswerable,  and  he  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment over  his  next  words.  He  had  to  weigh  them  rather 
carefully  for  the  ears  of  this  singularly  placid  and  self-pos- 
sessed young  lady,  whose  demeanor  was  so  little  the  index  to 
her  state  of  mind. 

"  Well,  if  I  admit  I  was  in  the  wrong  all  the  time — though 
I  really,  upon  my  word,  do  n't  know  very  well  what  the  row 


312  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

was  about — will  you  forgive  me?"  he  asked  in  his  most  irre- 
sistible manner,  which  was  so  far  successful  that  the  first  ap- 
proach to  a  smile  he  had  seen  since  they  met  now  appeared 
on  her  lips. 

"  You  know  very  well  what  it  was  all  about ;  you  have  not 
forgotten  a  word  that  passed,  any  more  than  I  have,"  she 
answered.  "  But  you  ought  to  have  written  all  the  same. 
I  am  generous  enough  to  admit,  however,  that  you  had  more 
reason  on  your  side  than  I  was  induced  to  admit  that  night. 
The  experiment  I  tried  has  not  been  a  success.  Have  you 
heard  that  Lizzie  Hepburn  has  run  away  from  us?" 

He  swallowed  the  choking  sensation  in  his  throat,  and 
answered,  with  what  indifference  he  could  command : 

"Yes,  I  heard  it." 

"And  is  that  why  you  have  come?"  she  asked,  with  a 
keen,  curious  glance  at  him.  "  To  crow  over  my  downfall — 
that  is  not  generous  in  the  least." 

"  My  darling,  how  can  you  think  me  capable  of  such  mean- 
ness? Would  it  not  be  more  charitable  to  think  I  came  to 
condole  and  sympathize  with  you?" 

"It  would,  of  course,"  she  admitted,  with  a  sigh.  "But 
I  am  rather  suspicious  of  everybody.  1  am  afraid  I  am  not  at 
all  in  a  wholesome  frame  of  mind." 

She  looked  so  lovely  as  she  uttered  these  words — her  sweet 
face  wearing  a  somewhat  pensive,  troubled  look — that  her  lover 
felt  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  him  to  give  her  up.  They 
had  now  left  the  town  behind,  and  were  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
where  four  roads  meet.  To  the  right  stood  the  cozy  homestead 
of  Mossgiel,  and  to  the  left  the  whole  expanse  of  lovely  coun- 
try, hill  and  field  and  wood,  which  had  so  often  filled  the  soul 
of  Burns  with  the  lonely  rapture  of  the  poet's  soul.  Gladys 
never  passed  up  that  way  without  thinking  of  him  ;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  sometimes  that  she  shared  with  him  that 
deep  yearning  depression  of  soul  which  found  a  voice  in  the 

words, 

"Man  is  made  to  mourn." 


A  GREAT  RELIEF.  313 

The  road  was  quite  deserted.  Its  grassy  slopes  were  white 
with  the  go  wan,  and  in  the  low  ragged  hedges  there  were 
clumps  of  sweet-smelling  hawthorn.  All  the  fields  were  green 
and  lovely  with  thepromise  which  summer  crowns  and  autumn 
reaps ;  and  it  was  all  so  lovely  a  world  that  there  seemed  in  it 
no  room  for  care  or  sadness  or  any  dismal  thing.  Being  thus 
alone,  with  no  witness  to  their  happiness  but  the  birds  and  the 
bees,  the  pair  of  lovers  ought  to  have  found  it  a  golden  hour ; 
but  something  appeared  still  to  stand  between  them  like  a 
gaunt  shadow,  keeping  them  apart. 

"  I  have  been  awfully  miserable,  Gladys.  You  see  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  do.  You  are  so  different  from  any  girl  I  have 
ever  met.  I  never  know  exactly  what  will  please  you  and 
what  will  aggravate  you.  Upon  my  word,  you  have  no  idea 
what  an  amount  of  power  you  have  in  those  frail  little 
hands." 

Gladys  smiled,  and  colored  a  little.  She  was  not  quite 
insensible  to  flattery.  She  was  young  enough  to  feel  that  it 
was  rather  pleasant,  on  the  whole,  to  have  so  much  power  over 
a  big,  handsome  fellow  like  George  Fordyce. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  so  much  nonsense,"  she  said, 
quickly;  but  her  tone  was  more  encouraging,  and  with  a 
sudden  inspiration  George  followed  up  his  advantage.  He 
put  his  arm  around  the  slender  waist  to  the  great  amazement 
of  Castor  and  Pollux,  who,  finding  the  firm  hand  relaxed  on 
the  reins,  had  no  sort  of  hesitation  about  coming  to  an  im- 
mediate stop. 

"  But,  all  the  same,  I  'm  going  to  keep  hold  of  these  little 
hands/' he  said,  passionately,  "because  they  hold  my  hap- 
piness in  their  grasp ;  and  I  'm  not  going  to  allow  them  to 
torture  me  very  much  longer.  How  soon  can  you  be  ready 
to  marry  me,  Gladys?" 

"  To  marry  you !  0,  not  for  ages !  Let  me  go.  Just  look 
at  the  ponies — they  are  utterly  scandalized!"  she  cried,  her 
sweet  face  suffused  with  red.  But  he  did  not  release  her 
until  he  had  stolen  a  kiss  from  her  unwilling  lips — a  kiss 


314  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

which  seemed  to  him  to  bridge  entirely  the  slight  estrange- 
ment which  had  been  between  them. 

She  sat  very  far  away  from  him,  and  gathering  up  the 
reins  again,  brought  Castor  and  Pollux  to  their  scattered 
senses ;  but  her  face  was  not  quite  so  grim  and  unreadable 
as  before.  After  all,  it  was  something  to  be  of  so  much  im- 
portance to  one  man.  The  very  idea  of  her  power  over  him 
had  something  intoxicating  in  it,  thus  proving  her  to  be  a 
very  woman. 

"  I  am  going  to  London  very  soon  with  your  Aunt  Isabel 
and  the  girls,"  she  said,  trying  t'o  lead  the  conversation  into 
more  commonplace  grooves. 

"And  could  n't  you  see  about  your  trousseau  when  you 
are  there?  Is  n't  London  the  place  to  get  such  things?"  he 
asked.  But  Gladys  calmly  ignored  this  speech. 

"  I  have  engaged  Christina  Balfour  to  remain  at  least  all 
summer  at  Bourhill.  She  can  be  useful  to  Miss  Peck  in 
many  ways,  and  she  is  devoted  to  the  place.  Poor  Lizzie 
has  fearfully  disappointed  me !  What  would  you  advise  me 
to  do  about  her?" 

"Nothing.  There  is  nothing  you  can  possibly  do  now 
but  leave  her  alone,"  he  answered  at  once.  "Do  you  think 
it  is  wise  to  keep  the  other  one  here?" 

"O  yes;  why  not?  I  am  really  going  to  perfect  that 
scheme  for  the  working-girls  soon.  Meantime  I  think  I 
have  got  a  little  disheartened.  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  very 
brave.  I  hoped  that  you  would  help  me  in  that." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  look  which  no  man  could  resist. 

"  My  darling,  I  '11  do  anything  you  wish.  I  'm  not  half 
good  enough  for  you,"  he  cried,  uttering  this  solemn  truth 
with  all  sincerity.  "  Only  give  me  the  right  to  be  interested 
in  all  that  interests  you,  and  you  '11  find  you  can  make  of 
me  what  you  like." 

Gladys  was  silent  a  moment,  on  her  face  a  strange  look. 
She  was  thinking,  not  of  the  lover  pleading  so  passionately 
at  her  side,  but  of  one  who,  while  loving  her  not  less  dearly, 


A  GREAT  RELIEF. 


315 


had  sufficient  manliness  and  strength  of  will  to  go  his  way 
alone,  conquering,  unassisted,  difficulties  which  would  appear 
unsurmountable  to  most  men.  George  Fordyce,  looking  at 
her,  wondered  at  the  cloud  upon  her  brow. 

"  Promise  me,  my  darling,  that  you  won't  keep  me  wait- 
ing too  long.  Surely  three  months  is  long  enough  for  the 
making  of  the  best  trousseau  any  woman  can  want?  Won't 
you  promise  to  come  to  me  in  autumn,  and  let  us  have  a 
lovely  holiday,  coming  back  in  winter  to  work  together  in 
real  earnest?" 

She  turned  her  head  to  him  slowly,  and  her  eyes  met  his 
with  a  long,  questioning,  half-pathetic  look. 

"  In  autumn  ;  that  is  very  soon,"  she  said.  "  But — well, 
perhaps  I  will  think  about  it;  only  you  must  let  me  be  till  I 
have  made  up  my  mind.  Why,  here  we  are  already  at  home." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

A.    REVELA.TION. 

T  was  some  days  before  Gladys  could  summon 
courage  to  write  to  Walter  about  his  sister.  Had 
she  known  the  consequences  of  that  delay  she 
would  have  been  profoundly  unhappy;  it  gave 
Liz  the  chance,  which  she  took  advantage  of,  to 
get  clear  away  from  the  city. 

Through  these  bright  days  of  the  early  summer  Walter 
kept  plodding  on  at  his  business,  but  life  had  lost  its  charm. 
He  was,  indeed,  utterly  sick  at  heart ;  all  incentive  to  push 
on  seemed  to  be  taken  from  him,  and  the  daily  round  was 
gone  through  mechanically,  simply  because  it  waited  his 
attention  on  every  hand.  As  is  often  the  case  when  success 
becomes  no  longer  an  object  of  concern,  it  became  an  assured 
matter.  Everything  he  touched  seemed  to  pay  him,  and  he 
saw  himself,  while  yet  in  his  young  manhood,  rapidly  becom- 
ing rich  ;  but  this  did  not  make  him  happy — ah !  how  utterly 
inadequate  is  wealth  to  the  making  of  happiness  how  many 
have  bitterly  proved ! — on  the  contrary,  it  made  him  yet 
more  restless,  moody,  and  discontented. 

Looking  ahead,  he  saw  nothing  bright — a  long  stretch  of 
gray  years  which  held  nothing  beautiful  or  satisfying  or 
316 


A  RE  DELATION.  317 

worthy  of  attainment.  A  melancholy  condition  of  mind  truly 
for  a  young,  prosperous,  and  healthy  man  !  In  the  midst  of 
this  deep  depression  came  the  letter  from  Gladj'S,  conveying 
the  news  of  Liz's  sudden  and  strange  flight  from  Bourhill. 
He  smiled  grimly  when  he  read  it,  and,  putting  it  in  his  pocket, 
returned  to  his  work  as  if  it  concerned  him  not  at  all. 

Nevertheless,  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  he  left  his 
place  of  business  and  took  the  car  to  Maryhill.  Gladys  had 
given  him  the  address  of  Mrs.  Gordon,  with  whom  Liz  had 
former/ly  lodged,  and  he  felt  himself  impelled  to  make  some 
listless  inquiries  there  regarding  her.  The  result  was  quite 
unsatisfactory. 

The  landlady  regarded  him  with  considerable  suspicion, 
and  did  not  appear  disposed  to  give  him  any  information. 
But  after  repeated  questioning,  Walter  elicited  from  her  the 
fact  that  Mrs.  Gordon  had  gone  to  Dublin  with  the  Eighty- 
third  Eegiment,  and  she  believed  Miss  Hepburn  was  with  her. 
Walter  thanked  the  woman  and  went  his  way,  scarcely 
affected  one  way  or  the  other,  at  least  to  outward  seeming. 
Liz  was  lost.  Well  it  fitted  in  with  the  rest  of  his  dreary 
destiny;  her  ultimate  fate,  which  could  not  be  far  off, 
weaved  only  some  darker  threads  into  the  gray  web  of  life. 
Next  morning  Gladys  received  an  answer  to  her  letter,  and 
it  made  her  feel  very  strange  when  she  read  it.  It  ran  thus : 

"COLQUHOUN  STREET,  Thursday  night. 

"DEAR  Miss  GRAHAM, — I  received  your  kind  letter  this  morning, 
and  I  thank  you  for  acquainting  me  with  my  sister's  departure  from 
Bourhill.  The  news  did  not  surprise  me  at  all.  I  was  onhr  astonished 
that  she  staid  so  long.  This  afternoon  I  called  at  the  address  you  gave 
me,  and  the  landlady  informed  me  that  Mrs.  Gordon  has  gone  to  Dublin 
with  the  Eighty-third  Regiment,  taking  my  sister  with  her.  After  this, 
there  is  nothing  we  can  do.  Poor  Liz  is  lost,  and  we  need  not  blame  her 
too  hardly.  5fou  reproved  me  once  for  calling  myself  Hie  victim  o:'  circum- 
stances; but  I  ask  yon  to  think  of  her  as  such  with  what  kindness  you 
can.  Of  one  thing  we  may  be  sure — her  punishment  will  far  exceed  her 
sin.  Thanking  you  for  all  your  past  kindness,  and  wishing  you  in  the 
future  every  good  thing,  I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

"  WALTER  HEPBURN." 


318  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

It  was  a  sad  letter,  conveying  a  great  deal  more  than 
actually  expressed.     Gladys  threw  it  from  her,  and,  laying 
her  head  on  her  hands,  sobbed  bitterly. 

"  My  dear,"  cried  the  little  spinster  in  sympathetic  con- 
cern, "  do  n't  break  your  heart !  You  have  done  a  great  deal — 
far  more,  I  assure  you,  than  almost  any  one  else  would  have 
done.  You  can  not  help  the  poor  girl  having  chosen  the 
way  of  transgressors." 

11  It  is  not  Liz  I  am  crying  for  at  present,  Miss  Peck," 
said  Gladys,  mournfully.  "  It  is  for  Walter.  It  is  a  heart- 
breaking letter.  I  can  not,  dare  not,  comfort  him.  I  must 
take  it  to  Christina  to  read." 

She  picked  it  up  and  ran  to  the  still-room,  where  the 
happy  and  placid  Teen  sat  by  the  open  window  with  some 
sewing  in  her  hand,  love  making  the  needle  fly  in  and  out 
wTith  a  wondrous  speed.  Her  resentment  against  Liz  for  her 
ingratitude  had  taken  the  edge  off  her  grief,  and  she  was  dis- 
posed to  be  as  hard  upon  her  as  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"  0,  Teen,  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Walter !  I  shall  read 
it  to  you.  It  is  dreadful !"  Gladys  cried,  and  with  trembling 
voice  she  read  the  epistle  to  the  little  seamstress.  "7s  n't  it 
dreadful?  Away  to  Dublin  !  What  will  she  do  there?" 

Teen  laid  down  her  sewing,  and  looked  at  Gladys  with  the 
simplest  wonder  in  her  large  eyes.  She  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  a  human  being  could  be  so  entirely  innocent  and 
unsuspecting  as  Gladys  Graham ;  for  it  was  quite  evident 
she  did  not  really  know  what  Walter  meant  by  saying  Liz 
"was  lost. 

"  He  says  her  punishment  will  be  greater  than  her  sin, 
whatever  he  means.  Do  you  know  what  he  means?" 

"Ay,  fine,"  was  Teen's  reply,  and  her  mouth  trembled. 

"  Tell  me,  then.  I  want  to  understand  it,"  cried  Gladys, 
with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "  There  have  been  things  kept 
from  me ;  and  if  I  had  known  everything  I  could  have  done 
more  for  her,  and  perhaps  she  would  not  have  run  away." 

"There  was  naething  kept  frae  ye;  if  ye  hadna  been  a 


A  REVELATION.  319 

perfect  bairn  in  a'tliing  ye  wad  bae  seen  tbrougb  a'thing. 
That  was  wby  all  the  folks — your  grand  freens,  I  mean — were 
so  angry  because  ye  bad  Liz  bore.  But  I  believed  in  her  my- 
sel'  up  till  she  ran  awa'.  Although  a  lassie  's  led  a\va'  she  's 
no  aye  lost ;  but,  I  doot,  I  doot,  and  noo  Liz  is  waur  than  we 
thoucht." 

Gladys  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  Slowly  a  dim  com- 
prehension seemed  to  dawn  upon  her;  and  it  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  it  was  a  shock  of  agon}*. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  poor  girl  is  really  bad ; 
that  she  has  deliberately  chosen  a  wicked  life?''  she  asked,  in 
a  still,  strained  voice. 

Teen  gravely  nodded,  and  her  lips  trembled  still  more. 

"And  what  will  be  the  end  of  it — what  will  become  of 
her,  Teen?" 

"  The  streets,  an'  she  '11  dee  in  a  cellar  or  a  hospital 
maybe,  if  she 's  fortunate  enough  to  get  into  one;  an' it '11 
no  be  lang  either,"  said  Teen,  in  a  quite  matter-of-fact  way, 
as  if  it  were  the  merest  commonplace  detail.  "  She  has  nae 
strength.  Wan  winter  will  finish  her.'' 

Here  the  composure  of  the  little  seamstress  gave  way, 
and,  dropping  her  heavy  head  on  the  sunny  window-sill,  she 
too  wept  passionately  over  the  ruin  of  the  girl  she  had  loved. 
But  Gladys  wept  no  more.  Standing  there  in  the  long,  yel- 
low shaft  cast  by  the  sunshine,  memory  took  her  back  to  a 
never-to-be-forgotten  night  when  an  old  man  and  a  maiden 
child  had  toiled  through  the  streets  of  Glasgow  after  mid- 
night; and  how  the  throng  of  the  streets  had  bewildered 
the  wondering  child,  and  had  made  her  ask  questions  which 
never  till  this  time  had  been  satisfactorily  answered. 

'•  I  begin  to  understand,  Teen,"  she  said  slowly,  and  a 
shiver,  as  if  a  cold  wind  had  passed  over  her.  "  Life  is  even 
sadder  than  I  thought.  I  wonder  how  God  can  bear  to  have 
it  so ;  I  can  not  bear  it  even  in  thought." 

She  went  out  into  the  sunny  garden,  and,  casting  herself 
on  the  soft  green  sward,  wept  her  heart  out  over  the  new 


320  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

revelation  which  had  come  to  her.  Never  had  life  seemed  so 
bitter,  so  mysterious,  so  unjust.  What  matter  that  she  was 
surrounded  by  all  that  was  lovely  and  of  good  report,  when 
outside  in  the  great  dark  world  such  things  could  be?  For 
the  first  time  Gladys  questioned  the  goodness  of  God.  Look- 
ing up  into  the  cloudless  blue  of  the  summer  sky,  she  won- 
dered that  it  could  smile  so  benignly  upon  a  world  so  cursed 
by  sin.  Little  Miss  Peck,  growing  anxious  about  her,  at  last 
came  out,  and  bade  her  get  up  and  attend  to  the  concerns  of 
the  day  waiting  for  her. 

"You  know,  my  dear,  we  can't  stand  still,  though  another 
perverse  soul  has  chosen  the  broad  road,"  she  said,  trying  to 
speak  with  a  great  deal  of  worldly  wisdom.  "  I  see  it  is 
very  hard  upon  you,  because  you  have  never  been  brought 
into  contact  with  such  things ;  but  as  you  grow  older  and 
gain  more  experience,  you  will  learn  to  regard  them  philo- 
sophically. It  is  the  onfy  way." 

"  Philosophically,"  repeated  Gladys,  slowly.  "  What  does 
that  mean,  Miss  Peck?  If  it  means  that  we  are  to  think 
lightly  of  them,  then  I  pray  I  may  be  spared  acquiring  such 
philosophy.  Is  there  nothing  we  can  do  for  Lizzie  even  yet, 
Miss  Peck  ?" 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  with  a  pathetic  wistfulness  which 
brought  the  tears  to  the  little  spinster's  eyes. 

"Is  there  no  way  we  can  save  her?  Teen  says  she  will 
die  in  a  cellar  or  a  hospital.  Can  you  bear  to  think  of  it, 
and  not  try  to  do  something  ?" 

Miss  Peck  hesitated  a  moment.  It  was  an  extremely 
delicate  subject,  and  she  feared  to  touch  upon  it;  but  there 
was  no  evading  the  clear,  straight,  questioning  gaze  oi 
Gladys. 

"  I  fear  it  is  quite  useless,  my  dear.  It  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  reform  such  girls.  I  had  a  cousin  who  was  matron 
of  a  home  for  them  in  Lancashire,  and  she  gave  me  often 
rather  a  discouraging  account  of  the  work  among  them, 
see,  when  a  woman  once  loses  her  character  she  has  no 


A  REVELATION. 


321 


chance ;  the  whole  world  is  against  her,  and  everybody  re- 
gards her  with  suspicion.  Sometimes,  my  love,  I  have  felt 
quite  wicked  thinking  of  the  inequality  of  the  punishment 
meted  out  to  men  and  women  in  this  world.  Women  are 
the  burden-bearers  and  the  scape-goats  always." 

Gladys  rose  up  weary  and  perplexed,  her  face  looking 
worn  and  gray  in  the  brilliant  sunshine. 

Her  heart  re-echoed  the  words  of  the  little  spinster ;  for 
the  moment  the  loveliness  of  the  earth  seemed  a  mockery 
and  a  shame. 

"  Why  is  it  so?"  was  the  only  question  she  asked. 

Miss  Peck  shook  her  head.  That  great  question  which 
has  perplexed  so  many  millions  of  God's  creatures  was  be- 
yond her  power  of  solution.  But  from  that  day  it  was  seldom 
out  of  the  mind  of  Gladys — robbing  all  the  sweetness  and 
the  interest  from  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

A.  WOMAN'S  HEA.RT. 

HE  second  summer  of  Gladys  Graham's  changed 
life  was  less  happy  than  the  first.  Her  young 
enthusiasm  had  received  many  chills,  and  some- 
how the  wealth  with  which  she  had  anticipated 
so  large  a  blessing  to  herself  and  others  seemed 
a  less  desirable  possession  than  when  it  first  came  into 
her  hands.  Doing  good  was  not  simply  a  question  of  will, 
but  was  often  surrounded  by  so  many  difficulties  that  it 
could  not  be  accomplished,  at  least  after  the  manner  she  had 
planned.  Her  experience  with  Liz  Hepburn  had  disheart- 
ened her  inexpressibly,  and  for  the  time  being  she  felt  inclined 
to  let  her  scheme  for  the  working-girls  fall  into  abeyance. 

In  May  she  left  Bourhill  in  possession  of  Miss  Peck  and 
the  regretful  Teen,  and  departed  to  London,  apparently  with 
relief,  in  company  with  the  Fordyces.  Her  state  of  mind 
was  entirely  favorable  to  the  furtherance  of  the  Fordyce 
alliance,  and  when,  early  in  June,  George  joined  the  party 
in  London,  she  allowed  him  to  take  for  granted  that  she 
would  marry  him  in  the  autumn,  and  even  permitted  Mrs. 
Fordyce  to  make  sundry  purchases  in  view  of  that  great 
event. 
322 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  323 

All  the  time,  however,  she  felt  secretly  uneasy  and  dissat- 
isfied. She  was  by  no  means  an  easy  person  to  manage,  and 
tried  her  lover's  patience  to  the  utmost.  Her  sweetness  of 
disposition  seemed  to  have  deserted  her  for  the  time  being ; 
she  was  irritable,  unreasonable,  exacting,  as  different  from 
the  sunny-hearted  Gladys  of  old  as  could  well  be  imagined. 
The  only  person  who  was  at  all  shrewd  enough  to  guess  at 
the  cause  of  this  grave  alteration  was  the  discriminating 
Mina,  who  pondered  the  thing  often  in  her  mind,  and  won- 
dered how  it  was  likely  to  end.  She  did  not  believe  that 
the  marriage  would  ever  come  off,  and  her  guessing  at  all 
sides  of  the  question  came  nearer  the  truth  than  she  herself 
believed. 

Gladys  appeared  in  no  hurry  to  return  to  Scotland ;  nay, 
after  six  weeks  in  London,  she  pleaded  for  a  longer  exile,  and 
induced  Mrs.  Fordyce  to  extend  their  trip  to  Switzerland. 
And  so  the  whole  beautiful  summer  was  loitered  away  in 
foreign  lands,  and  it  was  the  end  of  August  before  Gladys 
returned  to  Bourhill.  During  her  long  absence  she  had  been 
a  faithful  correspondent,  writing  weekly  letters  to  Miss  Peck 
and  Teen ;  but  when  she  returned  that  August  evening  to 
her  own,  she  was  touched  inexpressibly  by  the  wistful  looks 
with  which  these  two,  the  most  faithful  friends  she  possessed, 
regarded  her.  They  thought  her  changed.  She  was  thinned 
and  older  looking ;  her  grace  and  dignity  not  less  marked, 
her  beauty  not  impaired ;  only  the  brightness,  the  inexpressi- 
ble air  of  vivacity  and  spontaneous  gladness,  seemed  to  have 
disappeared.  She  smiled  at  their  tearful  greeting,  a  quick, 
fleeting,  almost  melancholy  smile. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely?"  she  asked,  with 
the  slightest  touch  of  impatience.  "Do  you  see  anything 
odd  about  me?" 

"  No,  O  no,  my  child,"  announced  Miss  Peck,  quickly. 
"  We  are  so  thankful  to  have  you  home  again  ;  we  thought 
the  day  would  never  come.  Have  we  not  counted  the  very 
hours  this  week,  Christina?" 


324  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"Ay,  we  hae,  but  I  dinnathink  she  'sfell  gled  to  be  hame 
hersel',"  said  Teen,  and  her  dark  eye  was  shadowed ;  for  she 
felt  that  a  subtle  change  had  overcast  the  bright  spirit  of 
Gladys,  and  she  did  not  know  what  it  might  portend. 

"  O,  such  nonsense  you  two  talk  !"  cried  Gladys,  lightly. 
'•  Dear  Miss  Peck,  just  ask  them  to  hurry  up  dinner.  I  am 
famishing  to  taste  a  real  home-dinner.  Well,  Teen,  how  have 
you  been  all  this  summer?  I  must  say  you  look  like  a  new 
creature.  I  believe  you  are  quite  beautiful,  and  we  shall 
have  somebody  falling  in  love  with  you  directly.  I  do  n't 
suppose  you  have  heard  or  seen  anything  of  poor  Lizzie." 

"  No,  naething.  Walter  was  here,  Miss  Gladys,  last  week, 
.seeking  ye." 

The  color  rose  in  the  face  of  Gladys,  and  she  averted  her 
liead  to  hide  her  softened,  luminous  eyes  from  the  gaze  of 
Teen. 

"And  did  you  tell  him  I  was  coming  home  this  week  ?" 

"  I  didna.  We  only  spoke  about  Liz,  an'  some  aboot  his 
ain  affairs.  Miss  Peck  saw  him  maist  o'  the  time.  He  's 
gaun  to  sell  his  business,  an'  gang  awa'  to  America  or  Aus- 
tralia." 

"  O  !"  exclaimed  Gladys,  sharply.  "  Why  should  he  do 
any  such  thing,  when  he  is  getting  on  so  well  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  dinna  ken,"  replied  Teen,  quietly,  though 
she  knew — ay,  as  well  as  Gladys — what  it  all  meant.  "  His 
father  's  deid  ;  he  de'ed  efter  a  week's  illness,  just  at  the  Fair 
time,  an'  he  's  gaun  to  tak'  his  mither  wi'  him..  She  'sbidin' 
at  Colquhoun  Street  the  now." 

"A  great  deal  seems  to  have  happened  since  I  went 
away,"  said  Gladys,  with  something  of  an  effort.  "  Is  he 
going  to  do  this  soon?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  immediately — at  least  he  cam'  doon  here  to 
say  guid-bye  to  you ;  but  Miss  Peck  can  tell  ye  mair  nor  me. 
She  spoke  a  long  time  till  him." 

A  question  was  on  the  lips  of  Gladys ;  but  she  held  it  back, 
and  again  changed  the  theme, 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  325 

"And  what  docs  he  think  about  poor  Lizzie?  I  suppose 
he  has  never  gone  to  Dublin  to  seek  for  her?'' 

'•  Xo,  I  dinna  think  it." 

"It  is  all  very  sad.  Don't  you  think  life  very  sad, 
Teen?"  asked  Gladys,  with  a  great  wistfulness,  which  made 
the  eyes  of  the  little  seamstress  become  suddenly  dim. 

"Ay,  it  is.  O  Miss  Gladys,  excuse  me  for  sayin  't ;  but  if 
3~e  had  seen  his  face  when  I  tel't  him  ye  were  maybe  to  be 
married  in  September  or  October,  ye  wadna  dae  't.'' 

"Why  not?  That  could  not  possibly  make  any  differ- 
erence  to  me,  Christina,"  replied  Gladys,  quite  coldly, 
though  a  slight  tremor  shook  her.  "  Well,  I  must  go  and 
change  my  gown.  Bourhill  is  looking  lovely  to-day,  I 
think.  I  have  seen  many  beautiful  places  since  I  went  away, 
but  none  so  satisfying  as  this.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  I  still 
think  Bourhill  the  sweetest  spot  on  earth." 

And  with  a  smile  and  a  nod  she  left  the  little  seamstress 
to  her  work  ;  but  it  lay  unheeded  on  her  lap,  and  her  eyes 
were  heavy  with  a  gray  mist  which  came  up  from  her  heart's 
bitterness.  Yes,  life  did  indeed  appear  sad  and  hard  to 
Teen,  and  all  things  moving  in  an  entirely  contrary  way. 

Miss  Peck  came  bustling  into  her  darling's  dressing-room 
very  shortly,  and  began  to  fuss  about  her  in  her  tender, 
nervous  fashion,  as  if  it  were  not  possible  for  her  sufficiently 
to  show  her  gladness  at  having  her  back.  Gladys  did  not 
say  very  much  for  awhile ;  but  at  last,  when  she  was  brush- 
ing at  her  soft,  shining  hair,  she  turned  round  suddenly, 
and  looked  into  the  old  lady's  face  with  rather  an  odd  look 
on  her  own. 

"  Xow,  sit  down.  Miss  Peck,  and  tell  me  every  single, 
solitary  thing  about  Walter." 

The  little  lad}*  gave  a  nervous  start,  She  had  just  been 
wondering  how  to  introduce  this  subject. 

"  Christina  has  told  you  that  he  has  been  here.  My  dear, 
I  was  very  sorry  for  him.  He  is  a  splendid  young  fellow, 
and  I  wish — " 


326  TlfE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

She  paused  there,  nor  did  Gladys  ask  her  to  finish  her 
sentence. 

"  Teen  tells  me  he  is  giving  up  his  business.  Do  you 
think  that  is  a  wise  step,  Miss  Peck?"  Gladys  asked,  with  a 
fine  indifference  which  rather  surprised  the  old  lady. 

"  It  may  be  wise  for  him,  my  dear.     He  seems  to  feel 
he  can  not  remain  any  longer  in  this  country." 

"  Did  he  ask  any  questions  about  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  Gladys,  a  few." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  did  not  give  him  any  unnecessary  in- 
formation," said  Gladys,  rather  sharply. 

"  My  dear,  I  told  him  everything  I  could  think  of.  I  did 
not  think  you  would  wish  anything  kept  back  from  your  old 
friend.  His  interest  is  very  genuine." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Gladys,  coolly,  as  she  began  to  coil 
her  long  tresses  round  her  shapely  head.  "  We  must  take  it 
for  granted,  anyhow.  And  what  did  he  give  you  in  exchange 
for  all  your  interesting  information  ?  Did  he  condescend  to 
tell  you  anything  about  himself?" 

Miss  Peck  was  wounded  by  the  tone ;  such  bitter  and  sar- 
castic words  she  had  never  heard  fall  from  those  gentle  lips 
before. 

"  We  had  a  long  talk,  Gladys,  and  I  imagined — perhaps  it 
was  only  imagination — that  it  relieved  and  made  him  happier 
to  talk  to  me.  His  father  is  dead,  and  he  has  taken  his 
mother  home  to  his  own  house,  and  she  will  go  with  him 
abroad." 

"  Where  to?  Is  it  quite  decided,  or  has  he  already  gone 
away?" 

"  Not  yet,  I  think." 

"Did  he  ask  where  I  was?" 

"Yes." 

"  For  a  particular  address  ?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  I  think  the  least  he  might  have  done  was  to  write 
and  let  me  know  all  this." 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  327 

"  My  deai*  child,  be  reasonable/'  said  the  little  spinster,  in 
gentle  reproof.  "  He  came  expecting  to  see  you,  and  he  left 
a  kind  message  for  you.  I  do  n't  see  that  it  would  have 
done  either  you  or  him  any  good  to  write  a  letter.  Your 
ways  must  lie  so  far  apart  now.  I  told  him  we  expected 
your  marriage  shortly." 

"  I  have  never  said  it  will  take  place,"  said  Gladys,  calmly. 
"I  wish  people  would  leave  me  and  my  concerns  alone." 

Miss  Peck  could  see  the  girl's  face  in  the  long  glass,  the 
red  spot  burning  on  her  cheeks,  and  the  beautiful  lips  angrily 
quivering,  and  she  became  more  and  more  perplexed.  Of 
late  Gladys  had  become  a  being  difficult  to  understand. 

"What  i.s  the  use  of  talking  in  that  manner,  Gladys?" 
she  said,  with  a  faint  show  of  sternness.  ';  I  saw  Mr.  For- 
dyce  in  toAvn  the  other  day,  and  he  told  me  it  is  quite  likely 
the  marriage  will  take  place  on  the  eighth  of  October.  It  is 
quite  impossible  that  it  could  be  definitely  fixed  without  you.'' 

"  I  suppose  so  ;  and  what  did  Walter  say  when  you  told 
him  my  marriage-day  was  fixed?"  inquired  Gladys,  as  she 
tied  the  ribbon  on  her  hair. 

"I  shall  not  tell  you  what  he  said,"  answered  the  little 
spinster,  quite  severely  for  her.  "  You  are  in  a  mood  which 
would  make  you  laugh  at  an  honest  heart's  suffering." 

"You  think  very  highly  of  me,  Guardy,  I  must  say," 
said  Gladys,  a  trifle  unsteadily.  "But  why  do  you  speak  of 
an  honest  man's  suffering?  Do  you  mean  to  say  it  made 
Walter  suffer  to  hear  I  was  going  to  be  married?'' 

"  My  dear,  he  loves  you  as  his  own  soul.  I  can  never 
forget  how  he  looked  and  spoke  of  you,"  said  the  little 
spinster.  "  He  is  a  good  and  noble  man,  and  God  will  bless 
him  wherever  he  goes." 

There  was  a  few  minutes  silence;  then  Gladys  walked 
over  to  the  window,  and,  drawing  aside  the  lace  hangings, 
allowed  the  red  glory  of  the  setting  sun  to  flood  the  whole 
room.  Standing  there,  with  her  white,  shapely  arm  against 
the  delicate  lace,  she  looked  out  in  silence  upon  the  lovely 


328  TSE  G  VINE  A  STAMP. 

prospect  which  had  so  often  filled  her  soul  with  delight.  A 
shadow,  dark  as  a  storm-cloud,  had  fallen  upon  that  sunny 
scene,  and  she  saw  no  beauty  in  it. 

"  I  have  loved  this  place  well,  Guardy ;  lived  and  longed 
for  it.  It  has  been  an  idol  to  me,  and  my  punishment  is 
here.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  it.  I  wish  I  had  never  left 
the  city,  never  been  parted  from  the  old  friends.  I  am  a 
miserable  woman.  I  wish  I  had  never  been  born." 

With  a  quick  gesture  she  let  the  curtain  drop,  and  throw- 
ing herself  on  the  end  of  the  couch,  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillows. 

Here  again  it  was  Miss  Peck's  privilege  to  administer 
some  crumbs  of  comfort  to  the  sad  heart  of  the  woman,  even 
as  she  had  once  comforted  the  child.  Stooping  over  her,  she 
laid  her  hand  tenderly  on  the  bent,  golden  head. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  If  you  do  not  love  this 
man,  it  will  be  a  great  sin  to  marry  him — a  wrong  done  to 
yourself  and  to  him.  If  there  is  a  chord  in  your  heart  re- 
sponsive to  Walter's,  do  n't  stifle  it.  What  is  anything  in 
this  world  in  comparison  with  happiness  and  peace  of  mind?'' 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  Gladys  answered,  with  mournful  bit- 
terness. "  But  it  is  too  late.  It  is  Walter's  fault,  not  mine ; 
he  left  me  in  my  desolation  when  I  needed  him  most.  I  did 
everything  I  could  to  show  him  that  I  could  never  forget ,him, 
and  he  repulsed  me  every  time,  until  it  was  too  late.  If  he 
is  unhappy,  it  is  no  more  than  he  deserves,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  be  so  dishonorable  as  to  draw  back  now  from  my 
plighted  word.  George  has  always  been  kind  to  me;  he  has 
never  hurt  my  feelings ;  and  I  will  try  and  repay  him  by 
being  to  him  a  good  and  faithful  wife." 

"A  good  and  faithful  wife !" 

The  little  spinster  repeated  these  words  in  a  half- mourn- 
ful whisper,  as  she  walked  slowly  to  and  fro. 

Ah !  not  thus  was  it  meet  for  a ,  heart  like  Gladys  Gra- 
ham's to  anticipate  the  most  momentous  crisis  of  a  woman's 
life.  She  felt  powerless  to  help,  but  Heaven  was  still  the 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART. 


329 


hearer  and  answerer  of  prayer ;  and  with  Heaven  Miss  Peck 
left  the  case. 

She  prayed  that  her  darling's  way  might  be  opened  up, 
and  that  she  might  be  saved  from  committing  so  great  a 
wrong,  which  would  bring  upon  her  the  curse  of  a  loveless 
marriage. 


CHAPTER  XL1V. 


THE 


BUMMER  seemed  DO  longer  to  smile  upon  Bour- 
hill.  That  sunny  evening  was  the  last  for  many 
days.  A  wild,  chill,  wintry  blast  ushered  in  Sep- 
tember; if  the  Lammas  spates  had  tarried,  when 
they  came  they  brought  destruction  in  their  train.  All  over 
the  country  the  harvest  was  endangered,  in  low-lying  places 
carried  away  by  the  floods.  Whole  fields  lay  under  water, 
and  there  were  many  anxious  hearts  among  those  who 
earned  their  bread  by  tillage  of  the  soil. 

These  dull  days  were  in  keeping  with  the  mood  prevail- 
ing at  Bourhill.  Never  had  the  atmosphere  of  that  happy 
house  been  so  depressed  and  melancholy;  its  young  mistress 
appeared  to  have  lost  her  interest  in  life.  Many  anxious 
talks  had  the  little  spinster  and  the  faithful  Teen  upon  the 
theme  so  absorbingly  interesting  to  both  ;  unsatisfactory 
talks  at  best,  since  none  can  minister  to  a  mind  diseased. 

One  day  a  letter  came  which  changed  the  current  of  life 
at  Bourhill.  How  often  is  such  an  unpretending  missive, 
borne  by  the  postman's  careless  hand,  fraught  with  stupen- 
dous issues  !  It  came  in  a  plain,  square  envelope,  bearing  the 
Glasgow  postmark,  and  the  words  Royal  Infirmary  on  the 
330 


THE  MAGDALENE.  331 

flap.  Gladys  opened  it,  as  she  did  most  things  now,  with  but 
a  languid  interest,  which,  however,  immediately  changed  to 
the  liveliest  concern. 

"  Why,  Miss  Peck,  it  is  a  letter,  see,  about  poor  Lizzie 
Hepburn  !  I  must  go  to  her  at  once,  I  and  Teen.  "Where  is 
.she?  If  we  make  haste  we  shall  catch  the  eleven  o'clock 
train." 

She  handed  Miss  Peck  the  letter,  and  sprang  up  from  a 
half-finished  breakfast.  The  little  spinster  perused  the  brief 
communication  with  the  deepest  concern  : 

"  WARD  12,  ROYAL  INFIRMARY,  ) 

"  GLASGOW,  September  6,  188—.  J 

"  MADAM,— I  write  to  you  at  the  request  of  oue  of  the  patients  under 
my  care,  a  young  woman  called  Lizzie  Hepburn,  who,  I  fear,  ia  dying. 
She  appears  very  anxious  to  see  you,  and  asked  me  to  write  and  ask  you 
to  come.  I  would  suggest  that,  if  at  all  possible,  you  should  lose  no 
time,  as  we  fear  she  can  not  last  many  days — perhaps  not  many  hours. 
"Yours  truly,  CHARLOTTE  RUTHERFITRD." 

"  This  is  from  one  of  the  nurses,  I  suppose,"  said  the  little 
spinster,  pityingly.  "Poor  girl,  poor  thing!  the  end  has 
•vome  only  a  little  sooner  than  we  anticipated." 

Gladys  did  not  hear  the  last  sentence.  She  was  already 
in  the  hall  giving  her  orders,  and  then  off  in  search  of  Teen, 
whose  duties  were  not  very  clearly  defined,  and  who  had 
no  particular  place  of  habitation  in  the  house.  It  said  a 
great  deal  for  Teen's  prudence  and  tact  that  her  rather  curi- 
ous positions  in  the  house — the  trusted  companion  of  the 
housekeeper,  and  the  friend  of  the  young  lady — had  not 
brought  her  into  bad  odor  with  the  servants.  She  was  a 
favorite  with  them  all,  because  she  gave  herself  no  airs,  and 
was  always  ready  to  lend  a  hand  to  help  at  any  time;  dis- 
arming all  jealousy  by  her  unpretentious,  willing,  cheerful 
ways. 

Gladys  found  her  in  the  drawing-room  dusting  the  treas- 
ures of  the  china  cabinet.  "  O,  Teen,  there  is  a  letter  about 
poor  Lizzie  at  last !"  she  cried,  breathlessly.  "  It  is  from  the 
infirmary.  The  nurse  says  she  is  very  ill,  perhaps  dying,  and 


332  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

she  wishes  to  see  me.  You  would  like  to  go,  I  am  sure ;  and 
if  we  make  haste  we  can  get  the  eleven  train." 

Teen  very  nearly  dropped  the  Sevres  vase  she  held  in  her 
hand,  in  her  sheer  surprise  over  this  news. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  talk.  Make  haste  if  you  wish  to 
go;  we  must  be  off  in  fifteen  minutes,"  cried  Gladys,  and  ran 
off  to  her  own  room  to  make  ready  for  her  journey, 
Miss  Peck  fussing  about  her  as  usual,  anxious  to  see  that 
she  forgot  nothing  which  could  protect  her  from  the  storm. 
It  was  indeed  a  wild  morning,  a  heavy  rain  scudding  like 
drift  before  the  biting  wind,  and  the  sky  thickly  overcast 
with  ink-black  clouds.  But  they  drove  off  in  a  closed  car- 
riage, and  took  no  hurt  from  the  angry  elements.  They  did 
not  speak  much  during  the  journey.  In  addition  to  her 
natural  excitement  and  concern  for  the  poor  lost  girl,  Gladys 
was  also  possessed  by  a  strange  prevision  that  that  day  was 
to  be  a  turning  point  in  her  history. 

"Surely,  Walter  will  have  seen  his  sister;  he  can  not 
have  left  Glasgow  so  soon,"  she  said,  as  they  drove  from  St. 
Enoch's  Station  by  way  of  the  old  High  Street  to  the  in- 
firmary. These  streets,  with  their  constant  stream  of  life, 
were  all  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  Gladys.  Many  an  hour  in 
the  old  days  she  had  spent  wandering  their  melancholy 
pavements,  scanning  with  a  boundless  and  yearning  pity 
the  faces  of  the  outcast  and  the  destitute — feeling  no  scorn  of 
them  or  their  surroundings,  but  only  a  divine  compassion, 
which  had  betrayed  itself  in  her  sweet  face  and  shining, 
earnest  eyes,  and  had  arrested  many  a  rude  stare,  and 
awakened  a  vague  wonder  in  many  a  hardened  breast.  She 
was  not  less  compassionate  now — only  a  degree  more  hope- 
less. Since  she  had  been  so  far  removed  from  the  sins  and 
sorrows,  the  degradations  and  grinding  poverty  of  the 
great  city,  she  had,  while  not  thinking  less  seriously  or  sym- 
pathetically of  it  all,  felt  oppressed  by  the  impotence  of  those 
standing  on  the  outside  to  lift  it  up  to  any  level  of  hope. 

"The  loud-stunning  tide  of  human  care  and  crime  " — as 


THE  MAGDALENE.  333 

Keble  has  it — beat  more  remorselessly  and  hopelessly  on  her 
ears  as  she  looked  up  to  the  smoke-obscured  sky  that  wet 
and  dismal  day.  She  felt  as  if  heaven  had  never  been  so  far- 
away. Almost  her  faith  had  lost  its  hold.  These  sad 
thoughts,  which  gave  a  somewhat  worn  and  wearied  look  to 
her  face,  were  arrested  by  their  arrival  at  the  infirmary  gates. 

It  was  not  the  visiting  hour ;  but  a  word  of  explanation 
to  the  porter  secured  them  admittance,  and  they  found  their 
way  to  the  portion  of  the  old  house  where  Lizzie  Hepburn 
lay.  The  visiting  surgeons  and  physicians  had  just  left,  so 
there  were  no  impediments  put  in  their  way,  and  one  of  the 
housemaids  speedily  brought  Xurse  Rutherfurd  to  them. 
She  was  a  pleasant-faced,  brisk  little  body,  whose  very  pres- 
ence was  suggestive  of  skill  and  patience  and  kindly  thought 
for  others. 

"O  yes;  you  are  Miss  Graham,  and  have  come  to  see 
poor  Lizzie,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  just  come  in  here  a  mo- 
ment? Her  brother  is  with  her.  I  will  tell  her  you  have 
come." 

She  took  them  into  a  little  room  outside  the  ward  door, 
and  lingered  only  a  moment  to  give  them  some  particulars. 

"She  has  been  here  three  weeks,"  she  explained.  "She 
was  over  in  the  surgical  wards  first,  and  then  came  to  us.  It 
was  too  late  for  us  to  do  any  good.  The  doctor  said 
this  morning  that  she  will  probably  slip  away  to-day." 

The  little  seamstress  turned  away  to  the  gray  window, 
and  wept  silently;  Gladys  remained  composed,  but  very 
pale. 

"And  her  brother  is  with  her.  Is  this  the  first  time?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes;  it  was  only  when  we  told  her  there  was  no  hope 
that  she  mentioned  the  names  of  anybody  belonging  to  her. 
She  spoke  of  you  yesterday,  and  asked  only  this  morning 
that  her  brother  might  be  sent  for.  Shall  I  tell  her  you  have 
come?" 

"If  you  please.     Tell  her  her  old  chum  is  with  me — she 


334  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

will  quite  understand,"  said  Gladys,  quietly;  and  the  nurse 
withdrew.  Not  a  word  passed  between  her  and  Teen  while 
they  were  alone. 

The  nurse  was  not  many  moments  absent,  and  the  two 
followed  her  into  the  long  ward.  It. was  a  painful  sight  to 
Gladys,  who  had  never  before  been  within  the  walls  of  a 
hospital.  Teen,  however,  looked  about  her  with  her  usual 
calm  self-possession,  only  her  heart  gave  a  great  beat  when 
the  nurse  stopped  at  a  bed  surrounded  and  shut  off  by 
draught-screens  from  sight  of  the  other  beds.  She  knew, 
though  Gladys  did  not,  why  the  screens  had  been  placed 
there.  The  nurse  drew  one  aside,  and  then  slipped  away. 

There  was  absolute  silence  there  when  these  four  met 
again.  Walter,  who  had  been  sitting  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands,  rose  from  the  chair  and  offered  it  to  Gladys ;  but 
he  did  not  look  at  her,  nor  did  any  sort  of  greeting  pass 
between  them.  Gladys  mechanically  sat  down ;  then  Walter 
walked  away  slowly  out  of  the  ward. 

With  a  low  cry,  Teen  flung  herself  on  her  knees,  laying 
her  face  on  the  white,  wasted  hand  of  Liz  as  it  lay  outside 
the  coverlet.  The  figure  in  the  bed,  raised  up  in  a  half-sitting 
posture,  had  an  unearthly  beauty  in  the  haggard  face,  a 
brilliance  in  the  eye,  which  struck  her  chilly  to  the  heart. 
It  was  like  Liz,  and  yet  strangel}7  unlike.  Gladys  felt  a 
strange  thrill  pass  over  her  as  she  bent  towards  her,  trying 
to  smile  and  to  sa,y  a  word  of  kindly  greeting.  It  brought 
no  answering  smile  to  the  dying  girl's  face,  and  the  only 
sign  of  recognition  she  betrayed  was  to  raise  her  feeble  hand 
and  touch  the  bowed  head  of  the  little  seamstress  with  a  tender 
touch,  never  bestowed  in  the  days  of  health  and  strength. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  looking  at  Gladys,  and  speaking  in  the 
feeblest  whisper,  "  I  'm  gled  ye  Ve  come.  I  culdna  dee  with- 
oot  seein'  ye.  Ye  bear  me  nae  grudge  for  takin'  French 
leave ;  ye  can  see  I  've  suffered  for  it.  I  say,  is 't  true  that 
ye  are  to  be  married  to  George  Fordyce?  Tell  me  that 
plain.  I  must  ken/' 


THE  MAGDALENE.  335 

These  words  were  spoken  with  difficult}'  at  intervals,  and 
so  feebly  that  Gladys  had  to  bend  forward  to  catch  the 
sound.  She  felt  that  there  was  not  only  anxiety,  but  a  cer- 
tain solemnity  in  the  question,  and  she  did  not  evade  it,  even 
for  a  moment. 

"  They  have  fixed  my  marriage  for  the  eighth  of  October," 
she  answered,  and  the  manner  of  the  reply  struck  even  Liz, 
and  her  great  hollow  eyes  dwelt  yet  more  searchingly  on  the 
girl's  sweet  face. 

"It  '11  no  be  noo,"  she  said.  "I  've  lain  here  ever  since 
the  nurse  tel't  me  she  heard  it  was  to  be,  wonderin'  whether 
I  should  tell.  If  ye  hadna  been  what  ye  are  1  wad  never 
hae  tel't ;  but  though  I  hae  suffer't,  I  wad  spare  you.  It  was 
him  that  brocht  me  to  this." 

Gladys  neither  started  nor  trembled,  but  sat  quite  mo- 
tionless, staring  at  the  sad,  beautiful  face  before  her,  as  if 
not  comprehending  what  was  said  to  her. 

"  It  was  him  that  led  me  awa'  first,  an'  when  a  lassie 
yince  gets  on  that  road,  it 's  ill  keepin'  straicht.  He  said  he 
wad  mairry  me,  an'  I  believed  it,  as  mony  anither  has  afore 
me.  Wheesht,  Teen,  dinna  greet."  The  sobs  of  the  little 
seamstress  shook  the  narrow  bed,  and  appeared  to  distress 
Liz  inexpressibly.  Presently  she  glanced  again  at  the  face 
of  Gladys,  and  was  struck  by  its  altered  look.  It  was  no 
longer  sympathetic  nor  sweet  in  its  expression,  but  very 
pale  and  hard  and  set,  as  if  the  iron  had  entered  into  the 
soul  within. 

"Is  this  quite  true?''  she  asked,  and  her  very  voice  had  a 
hard,  cold  ring. 

"  When  you  're  deein'  ye  dinna  perjure  yersel',"  replied 
Liz,  with  a  faint  return  of  the  old  caustic  speech.  "  If  ye 
dinna  believe  me,  ask  him.  Is  Wat  away?  Teen,  ye  micht 
gang  an'  bring  him  back." 

The  little  seamstress  rose  obediently,  and  when  they  were 
alone  behind  the  screens,  Liz  lifted  her  feeble  hand  again  and 
touched  the  arm  of  Gladys. 


336  TEE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  0,  dinna  tak'  him!  He's  a  bad  man — bad,  selfish, 
cruel;  dinna  tak'  him,  or  you'll  rue'd  but  aince.  I  dinna 
want  to  excuse  mysel'.  Maybe  I  wasna  guid,  but  afore  God 
I  lo'ed  him,  an'  I  believed  I  wad  be  his  wife.  Eh,  d'ye  think 
that'll  be  onything  against  me  in  the  ither  world?  Eh, 
wummin,  I'm  feared — if  only  I  had  anither  chance." 

That  pitiful  speech,  and  the  unspeakable  pathos  on 
the  face  of  Liz,  lifted  Gladys  above  the  supreme  bitterness 
of  that  moment. 

"  0,  do  not  be  afraid  !"  she  cried,  folding  her  gentle  hands, 
whose  very  touch  seemed  to  carry  hope  and  healing.  "  Jesus 
is  so  very  tender  with  us ;  he  will  never  send  the  erring 
away.  Let  us  ask  him  to  be  with  you  now;  to  give  you  of 
his  own  comfort  and  strength  and  hope." 

She  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  unconscious  of  any  listener 
save  the  dying  girl,  and  there  prayed  the  most  earnest  and 
heart-felt  prayer  which  had  ever  passed  her  lips.  While  she 
was  speaking  the  other  two  had  returned  to  the  bedside,  and 
stood  with  bowed  heads,  listening  with  a  deep  and  solemn  awe 
to  the  words  which  seemed  to  bring  heaven  so  very  near  to 
that  little  spot  of  eai'th.  The  dying  girl's  strength  was  evi- 
dently fast  ebbing;  the  brilliance  died  out  of  her  eyes, 
and  the  film  of  death  took  its  place.  She  smiled  faintly  upon 
them  all  with  a  glance  of  sad  recognition ;  but  her  last  look, 
her  last  word,  was  for  Gladys,  and  so  she  passed  within  the 
portals  of  the  unseen  without  a  struggle,  nay,  even  with  an 
expression  of  deep  peace  upon  her  worn  face. 

A  wasted  life?  Yes;  and  a  death  which  might  have 
wrung  tears  of  pity  from  a  heart  of  stone. 

But  the  Pharisee  who  wraps  the  robe  of  his  respectability 
around  him,  and,  with  head  high  in  the  air,  thanks  God  he  is 
not  as  other  men  are,  what  spark  of  divine  compassion  pr 
human  feeling  has  he  in  his  soul? 

Yet  what  saith  the  Scriptures?  "  He  that  is  without  sin 
among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her!" 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


ROM  that  sad  death-bed  Gladys  passed  out  into 
the  open  air  alone. 

"  When  you  are  ready,  Teen,"  she  said,  "you 
can  go  home  and  tell  Miss  Peck  I  shall  come 
to-day,  some  time.     I  have  something  to  do  first." 

She  neither  spoke  to  nor  looked  at  Walter,  but  passed  out 
into  the  open  square  before  the  cathedral,  and  down  the  old 
High  Street,  with  a  steady,  purposeful  step.  The  rain  had 
ceased,  but  a  heavy  mist  hung  low  and  drearily  over  the  city, 
and  the  wind  swept  across  the  roofs  with  a  moaning  cadence 
in  its  voice.  The  bitter  coldness  of  the  weather  made  no 
difference  to  the  streets.  Those  depraved  and  melancholy 
men  and  women,  the  bold-looking  girls,  and  the  wretched 
children,  were  constantly  before  the  vision  of  Gladys  as  she 
walked,  but  she  saw  them  not.  For  once  in  her  life  her 
unselfish  heart  was  entirety  concentrated  upon  its  own  con- 
cerns, and  she  was  in  a  fever  of  conflicting  emotions  —  a  fever 
so  high  and  so  uncontrollable  that  she  had  to  walk  to  keep 
it  down.  It  was  close  upon  the  hour  of  afternoon  tea  at 
Bellairs  Crescent  when  Gladys  rang  the  bell. 

"  Is  Mrs  Fordyce  at  home,  Hardy  ?"  .she  asked  the  servant  ; 
"and  is  she  alone  —  no  visitors.  I  mean?" 

22  337 


338  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"  Quite  alone,  with  Miss  Mina,  in  the  drawing-room,  Miss 
Graham,"  announced  the  maid,  with  a  smile ;  but  thinking 
at  the  same  time  that  the  girl  looked  very  white  and  tired. 
"  Miss  Fordyce  is  spending  the  day  at  Pollokshields,  and 
will  dine  and  sleep  there,  we  expect." 

Gladys  nodded,  gave  her  cloak  and  umbrella  into  the 
maid's  hand,  and  went  up-stairs,  not  with  her  usual  spring- 
ing step,  but  slowly,  as  if  she  were  very  tired. 

Hardy,  who  had  a  genuine  affection  for  the  young  mis- 
tress of  Bourhill,  looked  after  her  with  some  concern  on  her 
honest  face. 

"  She  does  n't  look  a  bit  like  a  bride,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  There 's  something  gone  wrong." 

With  a  little  exclamation  of  joyful  surprise,  Mina  jumped 
up  from  her  stool  before  the  fire. 

"  0,  you  delightful  creature ! — to  take  pity  on  our  loneli- 
ness on  such  a  day !  Mother,  do  wake  up ;  here  is  Gladys." 

"O,  my  dear,  how  are  you?"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  waking 
up  with  a  start.  "  When  did  you  come  up  ?  Were  you  not 
afraid  to  venture  on  such  a  day  ?" 

"  I  had  to  come,"  Ghulvs  made  reply,  and  she  kissed  them 
both  with  a  perfectly  grave  face.  "  Will  you  do  something 
for  me,  Mrs.  Fordj^ce?" 

"  Why,  certainly,  my  dear.  But  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  You  look  as  melancholy  as  an  owl." 

"Will  you  send  a  servant  to  Gorbals  Mill,  to  ask 
3'our  nephew  to  come  here  on  his  way  home  from  business? 
I  want  to  see  him  very  particular ly." 

It  was  a  very  natural  and  simple  request;  but  somehow, 
Mrs.  Fordyce  experienced  a  sense  of  uneasiness  as  she 
heard  it. 

"  Why,  certainly — but  will  a  telegram  not  do  as  well  ?  It 
will  catch  him  more  quickly.  He  is  often  away  early  just 
now,  there  is  so  much  to  see  about  at  Dowanhill." 

At  Dowanhill  was  situated  the   handsome   town-house 


THE  BOLT  FALLS.  339 

George  Fordyce  had  taken  for  his  bride;  but  the  allusion  to 
it  had  no  effect  on  Gladys,  except  to  make  her  give  her  lips 
a  very  peculiar  compression. 

"  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  think  of  a  telegram  !  Will  you 
please  send  it  out  at  once?'' 

"  From  myself?" 

"  Yes,  please." 

She  brought  Mrs.  Fordyce  her  writing  materials  ;  the  tele- 
gram was  written,  and  the  maid  who  brought  in  the  tea 
took  it  down-stairs. 

"  Gladys,  you  look  frightfully  out  of  sorts,"  said  Mina, 
quickly.  "What  have  you  been  about?  Have  you  been 
long  in  town  ?" 

"  Since  twelve.  I  have  come  from  the  infirmary  just  now, 
walking  all  the  way." 

"  Walking  all  the  way  !  but  from  the  Western  of  course?" 

"Xo,  from  the  Koyal ;  it  seemed  quite  short.  O,  that  tea 
is  delicious !" 

She  drank  the  contents  of  the  cup  at  one  feverish  draught, 
and  held  it  out  for  more.  Both  mother  and  daughter  re- 
garded her  with  increased  anxiety  in  their  looks. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  quite  time  you  had  some  one  to  exercise 
a  gentle  authority  over  you.  To  walk  from  the  Koyal  In- 
firmary here!  It  is  past  speaking  of.  Child,  what  do  you 
mean?  You  will  be  ill  on  our  hands  next,  and  that  will  be 
a  pretty  to-do.  Surely  you  came  off  in  post-haste  this  morn- 
ing without  your  rings,"  she  added,  with  a  significant  glance 
at  the  girl's  white  hand,  from  which  she  had  removed  the 
glove.  Gladys  took  no  notice  of  the  remark;  but  Mina,  ob- 
servant as  usual,  saw  a  look  she  had  never  before  seen  creep 
into  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  But  you  have  never  told  us  yet  what  you  were  doing  at 
the  infirmary,"  she  said,  suggestively;  but  Gladys  preserved 
silouce  for  a  few  minutes  more. 

"  Please    not   to   ask    any   questions,"   she   said,   rather 


340  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

hurriedly.  "  You  will  know  everything  very  soon  ;  only  let 
me  be  quiet  now.  I  know  you  will,  for  you  have  always 
been  good  to  me." 

A  great  dread  instantly  seized  upon  those  who  heard 
these  words,  and  Mrs.  Fordyce  became  nervous  and  appre- 
hensive. But  she  was  obliged  to  respect  such  a  request,  and 
they  changed  the  subject,  trying,  dismally,  to  turn  the  talk 
into  a  commonplace  groove.  But  it  was  a  strain  and  an 
effort  on  all  three;  and  at  last  Gladys  rose  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room,  giving  an  occasional  glance  out 
of  the  window,  as  if  impatient  for  her  lover's  coming.  But 
it  was  an  impatience  which  made  Mrs.  Fordyce's  heart  sink, 
and  she  feared  the  worst. 

George  was  no  laggard  lover ;  within  the  hour  he  rang 
the  familiar  bell.  Then  the  nervous  restlessness  which  had 
taken  possession  of  Gladys  seemed  to  be  quieted  down,  and 
she  stood  quite  still  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  her  face  was 
calm,  but  deadly  pale. 

"  Shall  we  go  before  George  comes  up  ?"  asked  Mrs.  For- 
dyce, involuntarily  rising ;  but  Gladys  made  answer  with  a 
shade  of  imperious  command : 

"No,  I  wish  you  to  remain.     Mina  can  go  if  she  likes." 

Mina  had  not  the  opportunity  A  quick,  eager  footstep 
came  hurrying  up-stairs,  and  the  door  was  thrown  open  with 
a  careless  hand. 

"You  here,  Gladys!"  he  exclaimed,  with  all  the  eager- 
ness and  delight  he  might  have  been  expected  to  display ; 
but  next  moment  the  light  died  out  of  his  face,  and  he  knew 
that  the  bolt  had  fallen.  Even  those  who  blamed  him  most 
must  have  commiserated  the  man  upon  whom  fell  that  light- 
ning glance  of  unutterable  loathing  and  contempt. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you  to  come  here,  because  it  was  here  I 
saw  you  first,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  rang  out  clear  and 
sweet  as  a  bell.  "  You  know  why  I  have  sent  for  you — to 
give  you  back  these  things,  the  sign  of  a  bond  which  ought 
never  to  have  been  between  ust  How  dared  you — how 


THE  BOLT  FALLS.  341 

dared  you  offer  them  to  me  after  your  monstrous  cruelty  to 
that  poor  girl  from  whose  death-bed  I  have  just  come?" 

She  tln-ew  the  rings  down  upon  the  table.  They  rolled  to 
the  floor,  sparkling  as  if  in  mockery  as  they  went;  but  none 
offered  to  touch  them.  Mina  opened  the  door  hurriedly,  and 
left  the  room.  Mrs.  Fordyce  turned  away  also,  and  a  sob 
broke  from  her  lips. 

Gladys  stood  quite  erect,  the  linen  at  her  stately  throat 
not  whiter  than  her  face,  her  clear  eyes,  brilliant  with  indig- 
nation, fixed  mercilessly  on  her  lover's  changing  face.  He' 
was,  indeed,  a  creature  to  be  pitied  even  more  than  de- 
spised. 

"  Gladys,  Gladys !  do  n't  be  too  hasty.  Give  me  op- 
portunity for  explanation.  I  admit  that  I  did  wrong,  but 
there  are  extenuating  circumstances.  Let  me  explain,  I  en- 
treat you,  before  you  thus  blight  my  life  and  your  own." 

"What  explanation  is  there  to  give?  If  it  is  true  that 
}'ou  ruined  that  poor  girl — and  do  you  think  that  a  lie  can 
be  uttered  on  a  death-bed? — what  more  is  there  to  say? 
Gather  up  these  baubles,  and  take  them  away."  Her  bear- 
ing was  that  of  a  queen.  Well  might  he  shrink  under  that 
matchless  scorn  ;  yet  never  had  she  appeared  more  beautiful, 
more  desirable  in  his  eyes.  He  made  one  more  attempt. 

"  Take  time,  Gladys.  I  deny  nothing;  I  only  ask  to  be 
allowed  to  show  you,  at  least,  that  I  am  a  repentant  man, 
and  that  I  will  atone  for  all  the  past  by  a  life-time  of  de- 
votion." 

"  To  whom  ?" 

"  To  you.  I  have  been  a  wild,  foolish,  sinful  fellow,  if  you 
like,  but  never  wholly  bad,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "And,  Gladys, 
think  of  the  fearful  scandal  this  will  be.  We  dare  not  break 
off  the  marriage  when  it  is  so  near." 

"  I  dare.  I  dare  anything,  George  Fordyce,  and  I  pray 
God  to  forgive  you  the  awful  wrong  you  did  to  that  poor 
girl,  and  the  insult  you  were  base  enough  to  offer  me  in  asking 
me  to  be  your  wife — an  insult,  I  fear,  I  can  never  forgive." 


342  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

"Aunt  Isabel,  will  you  not  help  me?"  said  he,  then  turn- 
ing desperately  to  his  aunt.  "  Tell  Gladys  what  you  know 
to  be  true ;  that  there  are  hundreds  of  men  in  this  and  other 
cities  who  have  married  girls  as  pure  and  good  as  Gladys, 
and  whose  life,  before  marriage,  would  not  bear  investiga- 
tion. Yet  they  make  the  best  of  husbands.  Tell  her  that 
she  is  making  a  mountain  out  of  little,  and  that  it  will  be 
madness  to  break  oft'  the  marriage  at  this  late  date." 

Mrs.  Fordyce  slowly  turned  towards  them.  The  tears 
were  streaming  down  her  face,  but  she  only  sadly  shook  her 
head. 

"  I  can  not,  George.    Gladys  is  right ;  you  had  better  go." 

Then  George  Fordyce,  with  a  malignant  scowl  on  his 
face,  put  his  heel  on  the  bauble  which  had  cost  him  a  hun- 
dred guineas,  crushed  it  into  powder,  and  flung  himself  out 
of  the  room.  And  Gladys,  with  a  low,  faint,  shuddering 
cry,  threw  herself  upon  the  couch,  and  gave  way  to  the  flood- 
tide  of  her  grief  and  humiliation  and  angry  pain. 

Mrs.  Fordyce  wisely  allowed  it  to  have  full  vent ;  but  at 
last  she  seated  hei'self  by  the  couch,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
the  girl's  flushed  and  heated  head. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  be  calm.  It  is  all  over ;  you  will  be  bet- 
ter soon,  my  poor,  dear,  darling  child." 

Gladys  sat  up,  and  her  wet  eyes  met  those  of  her  kind 
friend,  who  had  allowed  her  upright  and  womanly  truth  to 
take  the  right,  if  the  unworldly,  side. 

"Just  think,  how  merciful  it  was  of  God  to  let  me  know 
in  time.  In  a  few  weeks  I  should  have  been  his  wife,  and 
then  it  would  have  been  terrible." 

"  It  would,''  said  Mrs.  Fordyce,  with  a  sigh.  "  But  you 
would  just  have  had  to  bury  it,  and  live  on,  as  many  other 
women  have  to  do,  with  such  skeletons  in  the  cupboard." 

"  I  do  n't  suppose  I  should  have  died,  but  I  should  have 
lived  the  rest  of  my  life  apart  from  him.  Is  it  true  what  he 
says,  that  so  many  are  bad?  I  can  not  believe  it." 

"  Nor  do  I.     There  are  some,  I  know,  who  have  had  an 


THE  BOLT  FALLS.  343 

unworthy  past ;  but  you  must  remember  that  all  women  do 
not  look  at  moral  questions  from  your  exalted  stand-point. 
There  are  even  girls,  like  Julia,  for  instance,  who  admire 
men  who  are  a  little  fast.'' 

"  How  dreadful !  That  must  lower  the  morality  of  men. 
It  shall  never  be  said  of  me.  If  I  can  not  marry  a  man  who 
entertains  a  high  and  reverent  ideal  of  manhood  and  woman- 
hood, 1  shall  die  as  I  am." 

"  He  will  be  difficult  to  find,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fordyce, 
sadly.  "  This  is  a  melancholy  end  to  all  our  high  hopes  and 
ambitions.  It  will  be  a  frightful  blow  to  them  at  Pollok- 
shields." 

"I  am  not  sorry  for  them.  They  will  think  only  of  what 
the  world  will  say,  and  will  never  give  poor  Lizzie  one 
kindly  thought.  If  it  is  a  bloAV,  they  deserve  it;  I  am  not 
sorry  for  them  at  all." 

"And  you  are  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  at  the  nine- 
days'  wonder  the  breaking  of  3*0111*  engagement  will  make?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  What  is  it,  after  all?  The  buzzing  of 
a  few  idle  flies.  I  have  no  room  for  anything  in  my  heart 
but  a  vast  pity  for  the  poor  dead  girl,  who  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  and  a  profound  thankfulness  to  God 
for  his  unspeakable  mercy  to  me." 

She  spoke  the  truth  ;  and  in  her  own  homo  that  night, 
upon  her  knees,  she  poured  forth  her  heart  in  fervent  prayer; 
and  mingling  with  her  many  strange  feelings  was  a  strange 
and  unutterable  sense  of  relief  because  she  was  once  more 
free. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST. 

LADYS  returned  to  her  own  home  that  night, 
and  when  she  again  left  it,  it  was  in  altered  and 
happy  circumstances.  Those  who  loved  her  so 
dearly  watched  over  her  the  next  day  with  a 
tender  and  solicitous  concern ;  but  they  did  not 
see  much,  in  her  outward  demeanor  at  least,  to  give  them 
cause  for  alarm.  She  was  certainly  graver,  preoccupied,  and 
rather  sad;  but,  again,  her  natural  gayety  would  overflow 
more  spontaneously  than  it  had  done  for  long,  thus  showing 
that,  though  pride  and  womanly  feeling  had  been  wounded, 
the  heart  was  perfectly  whole. 

She  lived  out  of  doors  during  the  splendid  September 
weather,  taking  an  abounding  interest  in  all  the  harvest — 
work,  finding  comfort  and  healing  in  simple  things  and 
homely  pleasures,  and  feeling  that  never  while  she  lived  did 
she  wish  to  set  foot  in  Glasgow  again.  There  was  only  one 
tie  to  bind  her  to  it — one  spot  beneath  its  great  sky  dear  to 
her.  How  much  and  how  often  her  thoughts  were  concen- 
trated upon  that  lowly  place,  none  knew  save  herself. 

Since  that  melancholy  morning  in  the  ward  of  the  Koyal 
Infirmary  she  had  not  heard  of  or  seen  Walter ;  but  she 
344 


THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST.  345 

knew  in  her  inmost  heart  that  she  should  see  him,  and 
waited  for  it  with  a  strange  restful  ness  of  heart.  Therefore 
it  was  no  surprise  to  her  when  he  came,  one  sunny  evening, 
up  the  avenue  to  the  house.  She  saw  him  coming,  and  ran 
out  to  meet  him — something  in  the  old  childish  fashion — 
with  a  look  of  eager  welcome  on  her  face.  His  dark  face 
flushed  at  her  coming,  and  he  gave  his  head  a  swift  turn 
away,  and  swallowed  something  in  his  throat.  When  they 
met  he  was  grave,  courteous,  hut  a  trifle  distant.  She  was 
quick  to  note  the  change. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come  to  see  me  again,  Walter,"  she 
said,  as  they  shook  hands  with  the  undemonstrative  cor- 
diality of  tried  friends.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"Are  you?  Yet  it  was  a  toss-up  with  me  whether  I 
should  come  or  not,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  graceful  figure, 
and  noticing  with  some  wonder  that  she  was  all  in  black,  re- 
lieved only  by  the  silver  belt  confining  her  silk  blouse  at 
the  waist.  "  But  I  thought  I  had  better  come  and  say 
good-bye." 

"Good-bye!  Are  you  going  away,  then,  somewhere?" 
she  asked,  in  a  quiet,  still  voice,  which  betrayed  nothing. 

"  Yes,  I  have  taken  my  passage  to  Australia  for  the  four- 
teenth of  October,  sailing  from  London.  I  leave  on  Monday, 
however,  for  I  have  some  things  to  see  to  in  London." 

"On  Monday?  And  does  your  mother  accompany 
you?" 

"No;  she  is  too  old  for  such  an  undertaking.  I  have  ar- 
ranged for  her  to  board  with  a  family  in  the  country.  She 
has  been  there  some  weeks  now,  ever  since  I  sold  off,  and 
likes  it  very  much.  It  is  better  for  me  to  go  alone." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Are  you  tired  with  your  walk,  Walter, 
or  can  you  go  on  a  little  further  ?  It  is  a  shame  that  you 
have  never  seen  anything  of  Bourhill.  Surely  you  will  at 
least  sleep  here  to-night,  or  have  you  to  run  away  again  by 
the  nine-fifteen  ?" 

"  I  can  stay,  since  }-ou  are  good  enough  to  wish  it,"  he 


340  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

said,  a  trifle  formally.  "And  you  know  I  shall  be  only  too 
happy  to  walk  anywhere  you  like  with  you." 

"How  accommodating!"  said  Gladys,  with  a  faint  touch 
of  ironical  humor.  "  Well,  let  us  go  up  to  the  Birch  Wood. 
We  shall  see  the  moon  rising  shortly,  if  you  care  about  any- 
thing so  commonplace  as  the  rising  of  a  moon.  To  Aus- 
tralia? And  when  will  you  come  back,  Walter?" 

"  I  can't  say;  perhaps  never." 

"And  will  it  cost  you  no  pang  to  turn  your  back  on  the 
land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood,  which  her  children 
are  supposed  to  adore?"  she  asked,  still  in  her  old  bantering 
mood. 

"  She  has  not  done  much  for  me.  I  leave  few  but  pain- 
ful memories  behind,"  he  answered,  with  a  touch  of  kindness 
in  his  voice.  "  But  I  will  not  say  I  go  without  a  pang." 

They  remained  silent  as  Gladys  led  the  way  through  the 
shrubbery  walk,  and  up  the  steep  and  somewhat  rugged 
way  to  the  Birch  Wood  crowning  the  little  hill  which  shel- 
tered Bourhill  from  the  northern  blast.  It  was  a  still  and 
beautiful  evening,  with  a  lovely  softness  in  the  air,  suggest- 
ive of  a  universal  resting  after  the  stress  of  the  harvest. 
From  the  summit  of  the  little  hill  they  looked  across  many  a 
fair  breadth  of  goodly  land,  where  the  reapers  had  been  so 
busy  that  scarce  one  field  of  growing  corn  was  to  be  seen. 
All  the  woods  were  growing  mellow,  and  the  fullness  and 
plenty  of  the  autumn  were  abroad  in  the  land. 

"  It 's  dowie  at  the  hint  o'  hairst,  at  the  wa'  gaun  o'  the 
swallow,"  quoted  Walter,  in  a  low  voice,  and  his  eye  grew 
moist  as  it  ranged  across  the  beautiful  landscape  with  some- 
thing of  that  unutterable  and  painful  longing  with  which 
the  exile  takes  his  farewell  of  the  land  he  loves. 

"  Walter,"  said  Gladys,  quite  softly,  as  she  leaned  against 
the  straight,  white  trunk  of  a  rowan-tree,  on  which  the  ber- 
ries hung  rich  and  red,  "  I  have  often  thought  of  you  since 
that  sad  day.  Often  I  wished  to  write,  but  I  knew  that  you 
would  come  when  you  felt  like  it.  Did  you  understand?" 


THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST.  347 

"I  hoard  that  your  marriage  was  broken  off.  and  1 
thanked  God  for  that,"  Walter  answered,  and  Gladys  heard 
the  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  saw  his  firm,  fine  mouth  take  a 
long,  stern  curve. 

"  It  did  not  surprise  you?''  she  asked,  in  the  same  soft, 
far-off  voice  which  betrayed  nothing  but  the  gentlest  sisterly 
confidence  and  regard. 

"  No  ;  but  I  suffered  agony  enough  till  I  heard  it.  When 
one  lives  through  such  dark  days  as  those  were,  Gladys,  faith 
in  human  kind  becomes  very  difficult.  I  feared  lest  your 
scruples  might  be  overcome.'' 

"  I  am  sorry  you  had  such  a  fear  for  me,  Walter,  even  for 
a  moment;  but  perhaps  it  was  natural.  And  when  will  you 
come  back  from  this  dreadful  Australia,  did  you  say?" 

"  Perhaps  never." 

He  did  not  allow  himself  to  look  at  her  face,  because  he 
did  not  dare ;  but  he  saw  her  pick  the  berries  from  a  red 
bunch  she  had  pulled  and  drop  them  one  by  one  to  the 
ground.  Xever  had  he  loved  her  as  he  did  then  in  the  an- 
guish of  farewell,  and  he  called  himself  a  fool  for  not  hav- 
ing gone,  as  prudence  prompted,  leaving  only  a  written 
message  behind. 

"And  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me.  Walter,  that  you 
are  going  to  Australia — on  the  fourteenth,  is  it? — and  that 
you  will  never  come  back?" 

"  It  is  all  I  dare  to  say,"  he  answered,  nor  did  he  look  at 
her  yet,  though  there  was  a  whimsical,  tender  little  smile  on 
the  lovely  mouth,  which  might  have  won  his  gaze. 

'•And  you  are  quite  determined  to  go  alone?'' 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  began,  glad  of  anything  to  get  on 
commonplace  ground,  "I  might  get  plenty  of  fellows,  but 
it's  an  awful  bore,  unless  they  happen  just  to  be  the  right 
sort." 

"  Yes,  that  is  quite  true ;  there  are  so  few  nice  fellows," 
said  Gladys,  innocently.  "  Don't  you  think  you  might  get 
a  nice  girl  to  go  with  you,  if  you  asked  her  properly  ?" 


348  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

Then  Walter  flashed  a  sad,  proud  look  at  her — a  look 
which  Gladys  fearlessly  met,  and  thought  at  that  very  mo- 
ment that  she  had  never  seen  him  look  so  well,  so  handsome, 
so  worthy  of  regard.  Sorrow  had  wrought  her  perfect  work 
in  him,  and  he  had  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  blighted 
hope  and  frustrated  ambition  a  gentler,  humbler,  ay,  and  a 
holier  man  than  he  had  yet  been.  Suddenly  that  look  of 
sad,  quiet  wonder,  which  had  a  touch  of  reproach  in  it,  quite 
broke  Gladys  down,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  stem  the  tears 
which  might  make  him  sad  or  glad,  she  did  not  care. 

"  Gladys,  "  he  began  hurriedly,  "  it  is  more  than  man  is  fit 
to  bear,  to  see  these  tears  If  they  mean  nothing  more  than 
a  natural  regret  at  parting  from  one  whom  circumstances 
have  strangely  thrown  in  your  way,  perhaps  too  often,  tell 
me  so,  and  i  shall  thank  you,  even  for  that  kindly  regret; 
but  if  they  mean  that  I  may  come  back  some  day,  worthier, 
perhaps,  than  I  am  to-day — " 

"  That  day  will  never  come,"  broke  in  Gladys,  quietly. 
"  But  if  you  will  take  me  to  Australia  with  you,  Walter,  I 
am  ready  to  go  this  very  day." 

His  face  grew  dusky  red,  his  eyes  shone,  he  looked  at 
her  as  if  he  sought  to  read  her  soul. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,  Gladys?  If  you  go, 
it  can  only  be  in  one  way,  as  my  wife." 

"  Well." 

She  took  a  long  breath,  but  was  allowed  to  say  no  more, 
until  a  long  time  after,  when  she  raised  her  face  from  her 
lover's  breast,  and  demanded  that  he  should  take  her 
home. 

"  It  is  an  awful  thing  we  have  done,  Gladys,"  he  said, 
touching  her  dear  head  for  the  twentieth  time,  and  looking 
down  into  her  eyes,  which  were  luminous  with  the  light  of 
love — "  an  awful  thing  for  me,  at  least.  We  shall  have  to  flee 
the  country,  and  they  will  say  I  have  abducted  the  heiress  of 
Bourhill." 

"  0,  do — run  off  with  me  as  the  Red  Reiver,  and  all  these 


THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST.  349 

nice,  interesting  sort  of  people  used  to  do  long  ago.  Let 
us  abscond,  and  not  tell  a  single  living  soul,  except  the  faith- 
ful Teen." 

But  "Walter  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  what  I  should  like  to  do  above  every  thing ;  but  I 
must  resist  the  temptation.  No,  my  darling;  for  your  sake 
everything  must  be  most  scrupulously  conventional,  if  a  little 
hurried.  I  shall  pay  your  guardian  a  visit  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, which  will  somewhat  astonish  him." 

Gladys  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  access  of  admiration. 
To  hear  him  speak  in  that  calm,  masterful  tone  pleased  her 
as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 

"But  you  won't  let  them  frighten  you,  and  abscond  with- 
out me ;  that  would  be  too  mean,"  she  said,  saucily. 

Walter  made  no  verbal  reply;  and  so,  hand  in  hand, 
they  turned  to  leave  the  moonlit  woods,  and  there  was  a  look 
on  the  face  of  Walter  such  as  you  see  on  the  faces  of  reverent 
worshipers  who  have  found  rest  and  peace  to  their  souls. 

"  Poor  Liz  !"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  and  he  uplifted  his 
eyes  to  the  clear  sky,  as  if  seeking  to  penetrate  its  mystery, 
and  find  whither  that  wayward  soul  had  fled. 

Gladys  laid  her  soft  cheek  against  his  arm,  and  silence 
fell  upon  them  again.  But  the  heart  of  each  was  full  to  the 
uttermost,  and  they  asked  no  more. 

It  was  indeed  the  world  well  lost  for  love. 

On  the  morning  of  the  9th  of  October,  this  announcement 
appeared  in  the  marriage-list  of  the  Glasgow  Herald,  and  was 
read  and  discussed  at  many  breakfast-tables  :  "At  Bourhill, 
Ayrshire,  on  the  8th  instant,  Walter  Hepburn  to  Gladys 
Graham." 

It  may  be  added  that  it  was  a  source  of  profound  wonder 
to  many,  and  of  awful  chagrin  to  a  few.  In  the  house  of  the 
Pollokshields  Fordyces  the  announcement  was  discreetly 
tabooed,  though  George  must  have  felt  it  keenly,  seeing 
Gladys  had  suffered  so  little  over  the  unhappy  termination 


350  THE  GUINEA  STAMP. 

of  their  engagement  that  she  could  substitute  another  bride- 
groom, though  retaining  the  same  marriage-day. 

On  the  fourteenth  the  young  couple  set  sail  for  the  land 
of  the  Southern  Cross,  and  were  absent  exactly  twelve 
months ;  the  reason  for  their  return  being  that  they  wished 
their  first-born  child  to  see  the  light  first  in  Bourhill.  And 
they  never  left  it  again  ;  for  Walter  made  use  of  the  colonial 
connection  he  had  made  to  build  up  a  new  business  in  Glas- 
gow, which  has  prospered  far  above  his  expectation.  So  for- 
tune has  blessed  him  in  the  end,  and  he  can  admit  now  that 
the  bitterness  of  the  old  days  was  not  without  its  purpose. 

The  faithful  Teen,  no  longer  melancholy,  reigns  in  a  snug 
house  of  her  own,  not  a  hundred  miles  from  Mauchline,  but 
retains  her  old  adoration  for  Bourhill  and  its  bonnie  sweet 
mistress. 

There  are  occasional  comings  and  goings  between  the 
Bellairs  Crescent  Fordyces  and  Bourhill,  and  the  family  are 
united  in  approving  the  marriage  of  Gladys  now,  though 
they  had  their  fling  at  it  with  the  rest  of  the  folk  when  it 
was  a  nine-days'  wonder.  But  that  is  the  way  of  the  world 
mostly — to  go  with  the  crowd,  which  jumps  on  a  man  when 
he  is  down,  and  gives  him  a  kindly  pat  or  a  cringing  salute, 
as  may  seem  most  advisable,  when  he  is  up. 

But  the  wise  man  takes  no  account  of  such,  pursuing  his 
own  path  with  integrity  and  perseverance,  cherishing  the 
tried  friends,  and  keeping  warm  and  close  in  his  heart,  like 
a  dove  in  its  nest,  the  love  which,  through  sunshine  and 
storm,  remains  unchanged. 


COMPOSITION,  STEREOTYI-INO,  PKKSS-WOKK,  AND  BINDING  DONE  AT  THK 
WESTERN  METHODIST  BOOK  CONCERN. 


BARBARA  LEYBOUHNE.     A  Story  of  Eighty  Years  Ago. 

BY  SARAH  SELINA  HAMER. 
121110.     Cloth.    320  pages,     oo  cents. 

"If  tlie  ethics  of  art  do  not  permit  the  truthful  presenta- 
tion of  a  character  essentially  noble,  but  liable  to  great  error  — 
error  that  is  anguish  to  its  own  nobleness—  then  it  seems  to 
me  the  ethics  of  art  are  too  narrow,  and  must  be  widened  to 
correspond  with  a  widening  psychology."  —  GKORGE  ELIOT. 

PRESS   NOTICES. 

From  the  JEjnvortli  Herald. 

It  is  the  work  of  a  skillful  writer,  and  will  find  many  readers  among 
our  young  people.  The  author  has  a  high  aim,  and  keeps  steadily  to 
her  purpose  —  to  produce  a  story  that  will  "  lift  up  "  mentally  aud  spirit- 
ually. The  book  will  do  good. 

NORMAN  REID,  M.  A. 

BY  JESSIE  PATRICK  FINDLAY. 

izmo.     Cloth.    jf2  pages,    oo  cents. 

"  Ah,  when  shall  all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  laud?"—  TENNYSON. 

PRESS  NOTICES. 
From  the  Religions  Telescope. 

The  story  of  Norman  Reid  contains  many  beautiful  word-pictures. 
The  sentiment  is  ennobling;  and  if  its  readers  all  exercise,  while  read- 
ing it,  a  discriminative  reason  aud  judgment,  they  can  but  be  benefited  by 
its  perusal. 

ROCKTON.    A  Story  of  Spring-time  Recreation. 

BY  KEL  SNOW,  ESQ. 
\2ino.     Cloth.     280  pages,     oo  cents. 

It  must  also  be  said  that  this  "  queer  man  "  was  especially 
liked  by  boys.  It  was  the  almost  daily  aggravation  0*"  Annis 
Crab  that  if  her  green  eyes  looked  out  of  the  front  windows 
of  her  house,  outside  of  school  hours,  she  saw  him,  as  she 
snappishly  told  her  happily  deaf  old  mother,  "just  wasting 
his  time  with  a  passel  of  boys  at  his  heels."  —  Extract  from 
description  of  Mr.  Armour,  in  Rockton. 

PR6SS    NOTICES. 


from  the 

A  story  of  New  England  village  life,  full  of  the  quaint  and  amusing 
characters  familiar  to  those  who  have  lived  there.  Many  valuable 
lessons  are  woven  in  its  brightness. 

CRANSTON  &  CURTS,  PUBLISHERS, 

CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO,  ST.   LOUIS. 


X  xfxxfxxfxxfxxfxxfxxfxxfxxi*xfxxixxfx*txxixxixxfxxixx+xX 

x,n?j 


"  For  Jesus'  Sake." 

DEACONESSES.     Biblical,  Early  Church,  European,  Amer- 
ican, with  the   Story  of  How  the  Work   Began  in  the 
Chicago  Training-school.     For  City,  Home,  and  Foreign 
Missions,  and  the  Chicago  Deaconess  Home. 
BY  LUCY  RIDER  MEYER. 

I2tno.     Cloth.    244  pages.    Illustrated.    75  cents. 

No  action  more  fully  freighted  with  hope  for  humanity 
gilds  the  sunset  glories  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  than  the 
re-establishment  of  the  Order  of  Deaconesses  in  almost  every 
branch  of  the  Church  universal.  —  Miss  FRANCES  E.  WIZARD, 
in  Introduction. 

PRESS  NOTICES. 
From  Zion's  Set-aid. 

Anybody,  Methodist  or  otherwise,  who  is  interested  in  the  deacon- 
esses and  their  work  will  find  this  book  of  Mrs.  Meyer's  an  extremely 
valuable  one.  The  volume  is  thoroughly  practical,  and  will  undoubtedly 
increase  the  number  and  work  of  this  religious  order,  if  it  can  be 
so  called. 

From  the  Northern  Christian  Advocate. 

This  book  tells  the  story  of  the  work  itself,  and  conveys,  without 
telling,  the  story  of  the  preparation  of  the  volume.  It  is  piquant,  inter- 
esting, attractive.  A  great  many  nowadays  want  to  know  about  the 
movement,  and  they  may  well  read  Lucy  Rider  Meyer's  book.  It  is  full 
of  genuine  womanly  devotion,  inspiration,  and  faith. 

From  the  Preacher's  Magazine. 

A  very  full  discussion  of  this  growingly  important  office  and  feature 
in  Church  life  and  work.  Also  the  story,  sweetly  told,  of  how  the  work 
began  in  the  Chicago  Training-school.  .  .  .  Familiarity  with  every 
aspect  of  the  work  they  propose  to  accomplish,  and  the  requirements  of 
those  devoted  to  this  service  are  brought  distinctly  to  notice  by  this 
volume.  There  was  need  for  the  work,  and  it  meets  with  wonderful 
aptness  that  need. 

SIBYLLA.     Adapted  from  the  German. 

BY  CORNELIA  McFADDEN. 

i2tno.     Cloth.    396  pages,    go  cents. 


"  The  night  seems  long,  my  Father  ;  shadows  rise, 

And  dark  across  my  pathway  fall  ; 
There  is  no  light  of  dawn  in  Orient  skies, 


And  sorrow  shrouds  me  like  a  pall  ; 
The  stars  of  Faith  and  Hope  so  dim  have  grown,  — 
O,  rift  the  gloom,  and  send  their  radiance  down  !" 

The  story  illustrates  the  heartlessness  of  rationalism,  and 
the  sufficiency  of  the  Christian's  faith. 


CRANSTON  &  CURXS,  PUBLISHERS, 

CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO,  ST.  LOUIS. 


University  of  California 

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